


Vita Mortis

by Marquesate, TABrown



Series: Nil Desperandum [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Action, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M, Missions, Sexual Content, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-27 08:29:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 58,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquesate/pseuds/Marquesate, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TABrown/pseuds/TABrown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MI6’s most notorious agent and their new quartermaster are an unstoppable force and counter-force, bound to collide. Despite promising beginnings, Bond and Q seem destined to crash and burn.</p><p>Their long path towards acceptance is dangerous and paved with destruction - until death begets new life.<br/> </p><p>  <img/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reconnaissance

**Author's Note:**

> All tags, ratings, characters and notes refer to the entirety of this fictional work, not to individual chapters.

“What, no exploding pen?” The mix of petulance and amusement was annoyingly obvious in Bond’s voice, “and what about the car, Q?”

“What about the car?” Q echoed, down to the petulant tone. He was not looking directly at Bond, instead his attention on a fat black-and-white cat lying on his desk, all four of its paws tucked firmly under its heavy body.

“It got blown up, remember?” No, not remember. There lay treacherous paths. Better to focus on whatever the hell the Quartermaster was working on. Which looked like…a cat. Bond’s eyebrows crept up on their own volition.

“Hmmm,” Q was noncommittal. “Yes. Again. Can’t you ever keep an eye on government property?”

“Not my fault if the government lets those who destroy its property escape.” He glared at the cat, which yawned, and then proceeded to glare right back at Bond with slitted light blue eyes. “And what is that?”

“Who,” Q corrected. “This is Mr Turing.” He petted the cat, and tried to pry a paw out. The cat seemed to press itself further into the desk.

“Mr Turing.” Bond carefully pronounced each and every syllable. “A cat that is called Mr Turing, and that’s on your desk in Q branch in the very depths of MI6. Have you lost your mind already?”

Q looked at him properly, and frowned. “Mr Turing is helping me with a new development.”

“Of course he is,” Bond commented drily, “and what is that? Radius of average hair shedding? Velocity and ratio of cat shit?”

Q gave him a filthy look. “Concealing movement, if you must know. Plus a better mechanism for quick-release blades.”

“On a cat?” Bond’s eyebrows were back in their raised position.

“Paws,” Q said absently. “Claws, rather,” as though he was making perfect sense.

“I’m not sure if it has escaped your notice, but humans don’t have convenient places on their hands to retract anything.” Bond wiggled the fingers of his right hand in front of Q’s nose.

Q made a noise of disgust. “That’s the point.”

“Of course, how could I have been so stupid. You’re going to build secret finger-pouches.” The smirk that accompanied Bond’s words belied the pretence of ‘stupid’.

Q didn’t grace that with a reaction. “What are you doing here anyway?”

 “I’m here because you are meant to outfit me for Mali. Remember?” This time it was safe to remember. “My next mission. I’m a double-oh agent. I get sent on missions, and none of them involve petting a cat.” He said the last word with so much disgust, it was a miracle Mr Turing didn’t explode from the malevolence.

Q grunted. “Oh, that. What disaster are you going to make worse this time?” He stepped away from Mr Turing to head out of his office and into the lab proper.

“Do you ever listen to the news?” Bond called after him, then glared at the cat, which was glaring daggers into Q’s retreating back, as if the abandonment had been a personal insult.

“By the time it’s on the news, it’s old,” Q tossed back over his shoulder, stopping at a spare few inches of bench space.

“Smartarse.” Bond shot back.

“Do you want your stuff or not?” Q leaned on the bench. “All the same to me, or rather, if they stay here, I know they won’t be broken, exploded, lost, or melted.”

Bond’s facial expression morphed from amused smirk to something Q had never seen before - and hoped never to see again: a sycophantic wide-eyed smile, that would have rivalled Puss in Boots’, if not for the ice blue instead of dark.

“Please, Q?” The honeyed rumble of Bond’s voice was just as fake as his facial expression. “Please be so kind and give me some of your toys?” He finished off his little performance by clapping his palms, like a seal begging for another fish.

Q simply stared at him in something like true horror, before blinking away disbelief. “Idiot,” he huffed. “Come and get them anyway,” pulling a case out from a drawer and opening it.

“I’d say we are even. One smartarse for one idiot.” Bond flashed a brief grin, before stepping towards the case that had a customised Walther nestled in its foam interior. “Palm printed?” he asked as he took out the weapon.

“Naturally,” Q sounded insulted.

“Apologies.” Bond really didn’t sound apologetic at all. “Do I get anything special in addition to gun and comms?” He did sound hopeful this time, perhaps even genuinely so.

Q brought up a second, smaller case, pen shaped.  “It doesn’t explode, by the way,” he pointed out heartlessly.

“You wound me.” Bond opened the case, and a mere second after taking out the pen he had pressed the right buttons to release the manifold miniature tools. Q had to give it to him, the agent had an unerring knack to operate his gadgets.

“Lock picking tool?” Bond sounded somewhat impressed.

“Including an electronic code breaker.” Q confirmed.

“You might still have spots, but you’re not bad at your job.” Bond smirked at Q as he pocketed the tiny radio as well. Knowing damn well how any remark about his age riled the Quartermaster. But he couldn’t help it, banter with Q had rapidly become his favourite pastime.

Q made as though to splutter, but then looked down at his feet. “This is why Mr Turing is here.” Sure enough, the cat was lying at his feet, paws still tucked away tidily, but neither man had noticed him move from Q’s desk.

Bond raised only one eyebrow this time, and very deliberately so. “To help with the spots?”

Q glared. “To help with the moving undetected,” he replied haughtily. “Now don’t you have some information to retrieve or hostages to rescue?”

Bond ignored the second half of Q’s reply. “Is _Mister_ Turing your cat?”

“Yes,” Q said, almost defiantly. “Only way the Cats Home would let me get one.”

“Funny, that. I would have thought they’d love to lend you a cat for experimentation at MI6.” Straightening his cuffs, Bond cast a last glare at the fat feline. “Might be interesting to analyse the splatter pattern of an exploding cat.”

The cat was faster than Q, and Bond felt the swift movement around his ankles, scratches felt through his socks and scraping on his fine leather shoes.

The cat returned to its position on the floor, just out of reach, before Bond could react.

Q started laughing.

“You little bastard,” Bond snarled, “I’m going to…”

He didn’t finished the sentence, because Q interrupted, still laughing. “No, you won’t. Mr Turing is _my_ cat and you’re not going to touch him.”

Lesser mortals would have withered at Bond’s murderous look. “Just make sure _your_ cat isn’t going to touch _me_.”

“He didn’t until you insulted him,” Q said breezily, then picked up the cat. Unexpectedly, it complied.

“Now you’re telling me your cat understands human language?” Bond snatched an antistatic cleaning cloth from Q’s desk, ignoring the muttered complaints. “That’s far-fetched even for you.” He proceeded to polish his scratched shoes, then dropped the cloth in a bin after Q frowned at him when he’d tried to fling it back onto the desk.

“He understands more than a lot of humans,” Q retorted, giving Mr Turing a scratch on the head. The beast rubbed itself against Q’s shoulder. 

Bond slipped the Walther into the shoulder holster, the radio into the breast pocket, and clipped the pen into the inside pocket. That done, he clapped his flat palms together and pulled his facial expression back into the sycophantic one. “Thank you for my toys.” Before Q could shoot him off, Bond grabbed a foamy stress ball from a nearby desk. He threw it into the air and bumped it once with his nose while making seal noises, before striding out of the office to the stunned looks of the technicians.

Q was still staring with disbelief at his retreating back, Mr Turing in his arms, long after 007 had vanished from sight.


	2. Infiltration

“Q?”

It had been four days since 007 had left for Mali, with only sporadic contact.

“What?” the reply was sharp.

“Do you speak French?”

“Un peu,” Q replied, then switched to English. “I thought you did.”

“Mais bien sure,” Bond replied, his mild amusement audible through the comms line. “I’m fluent in French, German, Italian, Russian, Japanese, and passable in Greek, Spanish, Mandarin, and Cantonese.” He rattled the countries down in a way which made Q imagine him ticking each one off on a finger. “Just wondered if you did.” A pause, the sound of voices in the background, “they do have some remarkable shorts on them.”

“Wouldn’t have thought they’d be into that sort of thing there.”

“What sort of thing? Pray do tell, Quartermaster.”

Q could practically see the smirk, and refused to raise to the bait. “Women in short shorts.”

“They aren't.”

Q didn’t hesitate despite his surprise. “Well, then, anything other than long robes or dust fatigues.”

“You should see them in Chad, more legs on display than guns.” The sound of a vehicle passing by was heard, and voices in varying levels. It became more and more apparent, that Bond was sitting somewhere at leisure.

“Where are you?” Q asked suspiciously.

“At the side of the road in a rickety chair at a wobbly table.”

“Watching who?”

“As I said, French soldiers in very short shorts.” Bond’s reply was devoid of any inflexion.

“Why are you watching French soldiers in very short shorts?” Q didn’t try to keep the exasperation out of his voice.

“Because there is nothing else to watch. Four days without any sighting of the mark despite Q branch’s assurance she would be here. Apart from this mission being an utter waste of my time so far, which would have been better spent somewhere else, I am bored.”

“Bored.” Q’s voice was flat. “So you thought you’d call for a chat?”

“You’re my Quartermaster, aren’t you? Your job is to make sure I have everything I need while on a mission.” It was impossible to detect anything in Bond’s voice. If the man wanted to, his poker face-and-voice were impenetrable.

“And you need to be amused?” Q sounded disapproving. There was a feline yowl in the background.

“Look at it as me being ‘kept in line’.” 

A snort at the other end. “Since when?”

“You could give me an incentive.” Bond’s voice had dropped to the rumble Q had heard several times by now. All in the same type of situation, which was nothing like the one they were in now.

Q sighed. “You do realise I have things to do other than relieve your boredom; like inventing exploding pens.”

“Is that your incentive?”

“You’ll never know if you keep talking rubbish, will you?”

“I am deeply wounded, and here I had been about to congratulate you on the new radio you’ve designed.” A low, breathy chuckle came through the comms. “‘Rubbish’, so that’s how it is? You won’t get your congratulations after all.” Movement, the faint sound of fabric sliding as Bond stood up, then started to walk at a leisurely pace. “I shall relieve you of your duties of keeping me amused, since that is obviously beneath you.” Bond’s breathing pattern indicated that he’d picked up his pace. “Plus, I’ve spotted a familiar face.”

Q heard the sound of heavy traffic as Mr Turing jumped up onto the desk in front of him, obscuring the monitor.

Bond talked again, before Q could reply. “Can you get into any cameras? I need you to identify the man I’m following.” Bond’s demeanour had changed completely. Utterly professional, no hint of the annoying, flirting, mocking man left.

“Coming.” Q too, was serious, and there were a few quiet clicks followed by the sounds of a protesting cat being removed. “Got an overhead satellite feed, not the best angle, but he’s moving close to a security camera at ground level in a moment…” a few more clicks, then a pause. “Now that’s interesting,” Q mused.

“I know that guy, and when I remember someone it’s rarely for an innocent reason.” Bond’s breathing was steady, concentrated, as he followed the man. Q watched his movements, as he weaved through people and traffic. More inconspicuous than usual, dressed in khaki slacks and shirt, like most of the civilians, with dark shades hiding his eyes.

“You’re not wrong,” Q agreed, typing rapidly. “Kosovo, 1998. Large explosion. You were there, with a better chance of remembering. I was doing my A Levels.”

At any other time Bond would have snorted at the proof of Q’s youth. “I wasn’t just in one explosion in Kosovo in 1998. Can you narrow it down?”

“Primary target Vladjko Odjanovic, Serbian General. Killed in June 1998 in explosion at a farmhouse he had made his headquarters. This guy is one of his deputies, Major Sreten Pavkoric. Officially, died in the explosion. Hasn’t been spotted anywhere since. No records of crossing any borders, nothing.”

“Damn,” Bond’s voice was suddenly sharp, “I remember him, this bastard was the General’s ‘interrogation specialist.’ I was sure he was amongst the dead. Never too late to rectify that mistake, though.”

“No,” Q was firm, “not now. You’re there for a purpose, and your mark this time’s been spotted three streets away.”

“Is that an order from M?”

“Yes,” M’s voice came through unexpectedly. “I know you, 007. We need to investigate what Pavkoric is doing there before you go charging in. Back to work, Bond.”

“Bloody hell.” Bond muttered barely audible, then louder, “understood, Sir.” His displeasure at the order was all too evident, but he knew how to follow orders. “Guide me to the mark, Q.”

Q began giving instructions through the crowded streets. The mark was entering what counted as the best hotel in town and Bond sauntered in the same direction. For all the world yet another expat oil executive after a drink.

Q switched camera view to the hotel’s own security. His fingers flew over the keyboard, catching the agent just as he stepped into the building.

Taking his shades off, Bond stepped up to the bar, next to the mark. “Scotch,” he ordered, “on the rocks.”

The barman looked him up and down before getting the bottle down. The mark was in her thirties, wearing a slightly crumpled linen trouser suit, a broad-brimmed hat on the bar next to her, as she sipped her lime and soda.

Bond turned towards her while waiting for his drink, casting a well-measured appreciative glance with a perfectly-aimed smile. Giving her the option to acknowledge him first.

She looked at him coolly, taking in his features, before declaring, “too hot for your taste?”

“Just right.” Bond allowed his smile to deepen, along with his voice.

“Marie Minor.” She introduced herself.

“A pleasure to meet you, Ms Minor. My name’s Bond, James Bond.” He raised the glass of Scotch to tap it gently against hers, before taking a sip. All the while keeping his gaze on her.

“So, what brings you here, Mr Bond?”

“The lure of a potential…” his pale eyes raked over her lithe form with deliberation, “…story.”“

“Oh?” a raised eyebrow. “What kind of story?”

Bond’s voice dropped to a rumble. “That depends on what you are willing to offer.”

Q’s huff in his ear was ignored.

She toyed with her glass. “Who are you with?”

“Freelance. I like to take my chances.” He took another sip of whisky.

She nodded, looking contemplative. “Are you English?”  

“Through and through. I live and breathe ‘for Queen and Country’.” He delivered the line without a hitch and despite Q’s groan in his ear.

She didn’t look impressed. “Indeed. Do you know a Robert Sterling?”

“Competitor.” He put on an expression of mild distaste. “Independent investigative journalism is a cut-throat business.”

She tilted her head in sympathy, and Bond could feel her unbending. “All the more so with blogs and such.”

“Amateurs who think they know what journalism in the field is like.” He took a last sip of his now-diluted whisky and leaned closer, his voice going a notch lower and deeper. “But you, Ms Minor, you do know what it’s like to work in the field, don’t you?”

She looked away. “All too well.”

There, a tell, and Bond wouldn’t be the successful agent he was if he didn’t sink his hooks into the opening straight away. “It can be painful, can’t it?” He kept his voice in the low register, sympathetic while husky.

“Yes,” she finished the rest of her drink, toyed with the glass. “Things can be…different.”

A loss, Bond reckoned. Something to work with. “That’s why I’m freelancing on my own these past years, despite how hard it is at times.”

She nodded at her glass. “There’s always trade-offs, isn’t there?”

“Yes,” he reached out to place his hand lightly on top of hers, “and we have to decide if it’s worth it.” The touch of his calloused fingers warm and reassuring. Offering, not demanding.

She seemed to hesitate, before taking a breath and looking up. “What sort of stories do you usually write about?”

“Stories that uncover dirty secrets.” He left his hand where it was, one finger gently stroking hers now.

“That’s a dangerous speciality.”

“No one can accuse me of staying away from danger.” He smiled, as much to reel her in further, as in reaction to Q’s amusement and murmured “understatement of the century.”

“No, or else you wouldn’t be here.” She paused. “What brings you here, anyway?”

“The potential for an explosive story,” he leaned closer once more, “and you.”

“Me?” She sounded flattered, rather than shocked. Bond guessed it had been a long time since anyone had flirted with her.

“Yes, of course.” He nodded in the affirmative, to emphasise his point. “You are intriguing and beautiful, what more could a man ask for?” He thought he heard a faint snort in his ear.

“I am neither,” she brushed off the compliment, “I’m just a mining company lackey who couldn’t manoeuvre a better posting. I hear Canada’s nice this time of year. The food’s better, at least.”

He ignored the latter part for now, concentrating on the former. His vast experience of seduction had taught him that if the trap doesn’t fall shut early on, it never will. “You don’t believe me? Let me prove it to you that I never make meaningless compliments.” So close to her, his intent was clear.

“You’re upfront. I like that in a man.” She seemed to consider one last hesitation. “Do you want dinner...later?” The look in her eye clearly saying she did not mean they would meet again.

“If you can still think of food _later_ then I will have done something wrong.” He lifted her hand in his, and pressed a kiss onto her knuckles. Appearing as if his entire focus was on her, while smiling at the groan in his ear and Q’s muttered, “you’re a cheesier than a margarita, 007.”

“Confident, too,” Marie sounded amused. Relaxing, as she decided that she was going to do something reckless for once.

“Confident – and hopeful - enough to have rented a room,” he still held her hand as he stood up.

“Very much so,” she smiled. “Do  you do this every place you go, Mr Bond?”

“Only if the reward is as high as in your case.” Leading her towards the sweeping stairs.

Q heard Marie Minor’s laughter, and footsteps as she and Bond headed towards the lift. Mr Turing batted at his ankles, so he picked the cat up and placed him on his lap while watching Bond and Minor through the CCTV in the lift.

He could see Bond crowding the petite woman. Both hands beside her head, his whole body wove towards her. She lifted her face, but the kiss sought was prevented by the lift door opening.

With a few more keystrokes, Q brought the cameras along the corridor into focus, watching them walk, with the mark draped alongside 007’s muscular frame.

Bond led the woman to one of the hotel rooms, swiftly unlocking the door and gently ushering the woman inside. There had not been the opportunity to install cameras in the room, so Q was back to the auditory feed, which he expected to be cut off shortly.

Instead of silence, he heard fabric rustling, as clothes were taken off bodies. The woman’s breathless voice, in between the unmistakable sounds of kissing: deep, wet, passionate at that. “Oh, Mr Bond,” the woman sighed, “you are beginning to convince me.”

“Only beginning?” Bond’s voice had changed, the husky rumble had become genuine, not the fake-but-convincing register he’d employed earlier. “And it’s James.”

Q tensed involuntarily, making Mr Turing yowl in protest, but kept listening to the rustle of sheets being pushed aside and two bodies landing on the bed. If 007 hadn’t cut the comms line, he assumed there was a good reason, and he better continued to pay attention.

Q found himself staring at the empty corridor on the monitor, listening to the woman’s increasing moans and sighed exclamations, and the agent’s low moans. He hadn’t realised that he had stopped concentrating until he felt the sharp pain of Mr Turing’s claws penetrating the cloth of his trousers, claws digging into the flesh of his thighs. The unexpected pain made him yelp, before he managed to clamp his mouth shut.

There was a stutter in the proceedings in Q’s ear, a moment’s hesitation, which was followed by a much more heartfelt sound from Bond. A deep moan, which ran through the very core of Q, as it was followed by a husky, “you really are surprising me.”

The mark took the comment as aimed at herself, and her breathless laughter quickly turned into sounds of renewed vigour and passion.

Q, face burning, and hoping the others in the room could not see, pried Mr Turing off his lap and placed him on the floor, before gulping down a glass of water. Thankfully, in the intervening time, 007 seemed to have…finished…proceedings, and settled down next to the mark for a post-coital chat. Q had half-expected to hear the sound of cigarette smoking as well.

Ms Minor was mellow, her guards down after Bond had made sure she was well and truly satisfied. She freely answered all of the cleverly worded questions, smokescreens couched in a narrative. Occasionally distracted by kisses or what sounded like caresses in strategic places, whenever there was a possibility of her catching up on the well-hidden interrogation.

All the while through listening in, Q was entering the data he gleaned, setting off searches and pulling up maps, while feeding the information to the appropriate places.

“Well,” Marie said at length, “do you think that would make a good story?”

“An excellent story,” Bond replied into her hair. “But let’s not talk anymore, I’d rather enjoy your pleasurable companionship a little longer.”

“Oh, but James, I have to leave soon.” Her pleased giggle was silenced with what sounded like a kiss.

Q frowned. It was one thing to be caught out once, but he’d be a fool if he got caught out twice. “I’m cutting the line.” He knew his voice was unnecessarily sharp, but right now, with the lingering mortification, he didn’t care. “I hardly need to listen to this again.”

Back in the room, Bond growled a “shame!” against the woman’s skin.

That was the last Q heard before he shut down comms, angry with himself. 007 had played him, and he had no idea why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All tags, ratings, characters and notes refer to the entirety of this fictional work, not to individual chapters.


	3. Target Acquisition

“007, you have new orders.”

Bond frowned at M’s voice. The _new_ M. It still wasn’t right. “Yes, Sir?”

“There has been a situation developing in Algeria. I assume you are aware?”

“Yes, Sir.” Hands busy cleaning his weapon, mind busy with something entirely different. “I do tend to follow the news, wherever I am.”

“Good,” M paused, “you’re on the evening flight to Algiers, and from there to Hassi R’Mel.”

“What do you want me to do once I’m there? I guess it’s not just sightseeing?”

“Not exactly, but I do want you to bring back a souvenir.”

“I suppose it won’t fit into my pocket.”

“I don’t suppose it will, no,” M’s voice was dry. “Colin Gates, Head of Security at the plant. Former SAS man. He’s still got a lot of valuable material in his head.”

“The plant that was ever so successfully liberated by the Algerian special forces?” Bond’s voice topped Mallory’s with acerbic dryness.

“Within the expected parameters of success,” M agreed. “They may get in the way. Try not to cause too much collateral damage.”

Bond snorted, “you know me, Sir. I would never.” He reached for his secure laptop, and woke it from hibernation. “Q branch will get me up to date with location and context?”

“While you’re on the plane.” Q sounded deliberately detached. “You weren’t planning on watching the in-flight movie anyway, were you?”

“Q, what a pleasant surprise. Hadn’t expected your dulcet tones to sneak into my ear out of nowhere.”

Q huffed. “You’re not the only double-O, let alone agent, I have to look after, Bond.”

“But I’m your favourite, aren’t I?”

“Favourite pain in the arse, yes,” Q shot back.

“Shame it’s not literal.”

Q ignored that awful line and its implications. Bond heard him walking, and a fridge door opening, before Q called to someone. “Alice, how many times have I got to tell you not to put your excess samples in Mr Turing’s fridge?”

“That bloody cat has his own fridge. Of course he has.” Bond stated while checking which flight he’d been booked onto.

“Do you want your milk tasting like cat food?” Q retorted.

“Is that your latest threat? I thought you were into cancelling my bank cards and ruining my credit rating.”

“Oh I am, but that’s too predictable.” 

“For God’s sake,” M’s voice cut in, “will you two stop flirting. There’s a time and a place, and this is not it.”

“We’re not flirting!” Q spluttered.

“Talk for yourself, Quartermaster,” the agent interjected.

Bond was certain that had he been anywhere near, Q would have tried - and failed spectacularly - to punch the smirk off his face he was currently wearing.

“Focus on your next mission, Bond.” Q had put all of his indignation into sounding like a scolding schoolmaster.

“Yes, Sir! Of course, Sir!” Bond replied in the same fashion.

He could almost hear the gritted teeth when Q responded.

“Get to the airport, Bond, I’ll update you after you check in and I’ve sent the data to you.”

The feed was cut off abruptly, leaving the agent to grin to himself.

* * * * *

The rhythmic clicking of stiletto heels announced Moneypenny’s visit to Q branch at lunchtime. Q could have checked the cameras, but he was too busy tinkering with an innocent looking USB stick that had more surprises inside than Pandora’s box.

He could smell food when she walked through the open door of his glass office.

“Flirting? Really?” She cheerfully stepped closer to his desk, ignoring the death-glare he was throwing at her.

“I was _not_ flirting. I have no idea where M got that idea from.”

“I wasn’t talking about you, darling.” Unwrapping her offering of two tuna melt Panini, she balanced the paper plate on her palm. “I must say I’m intrigued. I have never seen him flirt with...” she paused for emphasis, “Quartermasters before.”

Whatever she was really saying was hidden beneath her innocent smile, which she faked to perfection.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?” Her smile brightened considerably, as she waved the food in front of Mr Turing’s nose.

Mr Turing demonstrated just why he was instrumental in movement research when he pounced on the plate, devouring the tuna filling that had spilled out, before either Q or Moneypenny had a chance to react. She nonchalantly picked up the untouched second Panini, flipped the first one open to allow the cat access to the rest of the filling, while smiling indulgently at the feline.

“You do know I’m your friend, don’t you?” Her smile remained indulgent as she waved the second lunch offering under Q’s nose. “And as a friend I am telling you that 007’s behaviour surprises me.”

“Isn’t he always an obnoxious prick?” Q took the Panini but just stared at it.

“Yes, I give you that, but he’s never been flirting with a man, as far as I know.”

Q blinked at her. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“You hadn’t? Come on now, darling, even you can’t be that unobservant in matters that are not related to code or computers.” She poked her perfectly manicured fingernail at the Panini in Q’s hand, pushing it towards Q’s mouth. “007 the womaniser? 007 the seducer of every female beauty that crosses his path? He nearly got _me_ to wilt to his charms.” She winked.

He took a bite and chewed obediently. “I’m surprised he hasn’t caught anything nasty, but what’s that got to do with him being an obnoxious prick? He isn’t to those women, at least not the ones he does on a mission.”

“Has it never occurred to you that the ones he does on a mission are part of the job?” She was petting Mr Turing, who purred while eating his bribe.

“So he’s only polite on the job and he’s a total prick off it?”

She let out a peel of laughter. “If you put it like that, it sounds quite right, but you let him rattle you. Bond is like a kid with a stick. He pokes and prods to get a reaction.” She grinned, “I’m afraid he never grew up.”

“And we let him loose on the world with…” Q waved his hand at the activity in the lab, “the most destructive weapons that can fit into hand luggage?”

“He gets the results, doesn’t he? He’s unpredictable, destructive, annoying, immature, oversexed, and unable to follow orders – and he’s been the most successful double-O with the longest serving history. Makes you wonder if the one doesn’t have to come with the other, hm?” She pushed the Panini closer to Q’s mouth once more.

Mr Turing finished his own bribe and was looking at Q with an expression that said ‘if you don’t want it, I do,’ which made Q quickly wolf it down.

“I always said we all have to be nutcases to work here,” he said at last.

“And 007 is the worst nutcase of us all,” she finished for him, chuckling. “Guess that’s a side effect of too many resurrections.”

“Oh?” Q tilted his head, “so most of the rumours are true, then?”

“Which ones? About him falling off the radar? About him dying?” She grimaced, “I had a bit of a hand in the latter, as you recall.”

Q shot her a look as he absently wiped his hands on his trousers. “Only the most recent, from what I’ve heard. I meant about him going on too many suicidal missions.”

Her light-hearted demeanour changed abruptly, turning serious. Studying him with her head tilted, she finally asked quietly, “have you read his complete file?” They both knew that he knew that she knew he could hack into anything within MI6.

Q hesitated. “No,” he said at last, “only the one on the mission server.”

“Well,” she hesitated just like Q had, “far be it from me to suggest any illegal activities, but if, and I stress the _if_ you do want to understand 007 for whatever personal reason you might have, then…well, you know what I’m saying.”

Q did, only too well, and stared at her. “I can’t believe you just did.” He paused. “Why are you so interested?”

“Contrary to what anyone might think, I do actually care for him. Strange but true. I also care for you a good deal, and when you put the two together, you get me as your friend wanting you to understand what you might get yourself into _if_ you happen to get yourself into anything. You also get me as Bond’s friend, and that part of me wonders why he is doing something so untypical of him. You’ll see what I mean when you know more.”

Q nodded solemnly. “I know.” He paused, “to be honest, I’m not quite sure what’s going on anyway.”

“I can’t help you there, darling.” Her teasing smile was back. “Maybe ‘wait and see’ is the best advice, as long as you are aware of all the facts.” She tickled Mr Turing behind the ears, who purred loudly in response. The traitor. “What is it that _you_ want?”

“I want him to stop being such an annoying arsehole, for one,” Q grumped, “and right now, I want to check to see if 002 has moved his fat arse any nearer to his target.”

“Alright,” she lifted her hands in a placating fashion, “I do get the hint when I’m not wanted.” With a chuckle, she leaned into Q’s space and placed a light kiss onto his cheek. “Off you go saving our agents’ posteriors, I’m out of your hair.” With that she turned and walked out of the office. The sound of her stilettos still echoing when she was already out of sight.

Mr Turing looked at her departing back, then at Q, and proceeded to forcefully expel a large hairball onto the floor.

Q sighed. It was time to get back to work.

* * * * *

Bond sat in a French military plane, reading the files Q had sent to his secure laptop, while talking to him. “How did Gates get the message out?”

“He provides MI6 with information on occasion. On this particular occasion he contacted his handler in Rabat to say all hell had broken loose.”

“And his last location? It says something here about a number of people being with him.”

“He’s reported he’s in the desert approximately nine miles from the oil plant, trying to head towards a maintenance shed further out along the pipeline. He has three other co-workers who escaped with him, but they’re flagging in the heat.”

“It’s been what, thirty-two hours now?”

“Bit less, but I take your point. They’ve got water on them, but only enough for a day or so.”

“What’s my ETA?”

“You’ll be landing at Tilrempt in thirty minutes. You’ll have access to a jeep. It’s approximately ninety minutes to the plant from there.”

“Weapons?” Bond tended to be as economical as possible with words when he was in professional mode.

“You haven’t already lost the ones I gave you before Mali, have you?”

“No, of course not.” For once, Bond didn’t take the bait, “but one palm-printed Walther and a few clips of ammo for an extraction of up to four marks? That’s a gamble, and as much as I like to gamble, I don’t find those odds acceptable.”

“There will be two semi-automatic assault rifles in the jeep, with ammo - I’m guessing the primary mark will be of help - and a box of hand grenades. And a launcher. And some water. And MREs”

“That’s more like it.” Just like that Bond switched back to the usual banter. “Grenades, launcher and semi-automatic, I think I’m in love with you, Quartermaster.”

Q tried not to leave too large a pause before replying, “you say that to all your Quartermasters.”

Bond huffed a laugh. “Of which I have so many.”

“I’m hardly the first,” Q replied, but then winced at the assorted connotations that brought up.

“But definitely the best-looking one.” As expected, Bond had immediately caught up.

Mercifully, there was a faint sound that indicated the plane was about to land. “Don’t you have a part-time MI6 information to collect, Bond?”

“Part-time?” Bond chuckled.

Q would bet the man was perfectly aware of his attempt at deflection. “He certainly didn’t give us enough to call himself a full-time operative.”

“Oh, you mean ‘informant’ not information,” Bond practically purred, twisting the honeyed knife of knowing that Q had tripped up. “Since we are landing now, you’ll be glad to know that I’m out of your hair for a while, and that’s a lot of hair, I must say.”

Q spluttered as the comms shut off. “Oh just go away,” he sulked, hunching into his chair.

“Are you sure, darling?” Moneypenny’s cheerful voice startled him. When had she snuck in and how much had she overheard? Had he really been that distracted?

“He’s the most irritating bastard of the lot, and that’s saying something.” Q glared at her, “but you’re rapidly moving into second place.”

Unperturbed, she perched on the edge of his desk, right next to Mr Turing. The traitorous beast didn’t mind. “But do you fancy the pants off him.”

Q didn’t grace that with an answer. Instead glaring even harder at the two of them, especially when Moneypenny petted Mr Turing and the cat actually purred. “Might I remind you that it would be highly unprofessional contact here. Not to mention a conflict of interest.”

Happily ignoring Q’s glare, she smiled her most angelic smile. “Conflict of interest? Tell me more. Whose interests?”

“MI6’s for one. And my sanity, for another.”

“Your sanity is questionable at the best of times.” She laughed when Q swatted at her. “MI6, though? Nil point to the quartermaster, or do you really think SIS gives two figs about inter-office relations as long as the parties involved remain professional?”

If he didn’t know better he’d think she was trying to throw him to the wolf. Singular not plural. Keeping silent, mostly because he had no idea what to reply to that, he dialled up his glare to the highest setting in a vain desire to communicate all of his disdain to her.

She only laughed again, slid off his desk and sauntered out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All tags, ratings, characters and notes refer to the entirety of this fictional work, not to individual chapters.


	4. Extraction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With heartfelt thanks to Sequelguerrier.

“Couldn’t you have arranged a newer Jeep?” Bond’s petulant tone was back in Q’s ear, an hour after his expected arrival in Hassi R’Mel.

“I could have,” Q was glad the last two mugs of tea had helped soothe his jumbled thoughts. “But it would have stood out too much. It works, doesn’t it?”

“It does, after I changed the bloody tyre.”

“Everything there?” Q ignored the last statement, though he made a note to have words with the local supplier.

“Extra ammo, weapons as promised, water and MREs. Spare kit and GPS.” Bond was back to being professional. “I need the latest co-ordinates.”

Q reeled off the numbers. “Came in six minutes ago from the primary mark.”

“Understood.” Punching in the numbers, Bond checked the route and the terrain. “They’ve moved further into the Atlas mountains, west of Aflou. According to the GPS it’ll take me about four hours to get there. Expect my arrival in three.”

“There should be a repair kit and extra fuel canisters, too.” Q neatly sidestepped the bait.

“Got it.” The sound of movement, then that of the engine starting. “You should prepare yourself for us having to get through to Morocco.”

A hum, and the sounds of fingers flying on computer keys. “Noted.” Q paused, “and 007?”

“Yes, Quartermaster?”

“Don’t break anything of mine unless you absolutely can’t avoid it.”

“Duly noted.” Q could hear the smirk in Bond’s voice. “Talk to you later, genius-boy.”

Q’s retort was cut short as Bond shut off the comms, leaving him spluttering once again.

* * * * *

The heat, combined with the itching of dust and sweat that caked Bond’s bare arms, and the rough terrain of the road, made for an uncomfortable ride. He never slowed down, forcing the jeep to speed along the dirt track. It was all about timing, as usual. He’d only stopped once to wind the long blue scarf around his head, face and neck, to protect himself from the ever intrusive sand, until merely his shades were visible.

The crackling of the radio announced that the line had been picked up again back at HQ.

“There’s something moving about nine miles ahead,” Q’s voice was as dry as the desert all around. “We’re trying to get a clearer picture of it now.”

“Satellite images?” Bond sounded faintly impressed, but it was hard to tell with the exertion of keeping the speeding jeep on road conditions that weren’t meant to be driven on like a madman.

“Hmmm,” Q made a vaguely affirmative sound. “Just don’t ask _whose_ satellites.”

“Wouldn’t even enter my mind.” Bond had left the outskirts of Aflou and was beginning to slow down. “Anything I should look out for?”

“None so far, but keep to the centre of the road, or at least where someone has gone over already, if you can.”

“Do you think I’m a hapless junior agent?” Bond growled.

“No, much worse.”

“When I get back, I’ll spank you for that.”

Q choked, and then firmly moved the conversation back. “Got a better picture of the movement in front. Black Landrover, number plates removed.”

Just like his Quartermaster, Bond, too, switched back to the focused professional. “Doesn’t sound like my mark. I’m preparing for hostiles.” Q heard movement, then the unmistakable sound of an automatic getting readied for action. He could picture 007 one-handed, rifle against his shoulder, steering the jeep with his left at increasingly neck-breaking speed.

“007, I’m losing visual due to atmospheric disturbances. Are you closing in?”

“I see them,” Bond’s tone was clipped, “still out of firing range.”

“Noted.” Q’s fingers flew over the keyboard, eyes trained on the large monitors above his head. Hopping from feed to feed, he finally found a grainy picture.

“Made contact.” Bond’s voice again, superfluous as the sound of shots were too loud for Q’s comfort. Shots clearly fired at the agent, almost immediately followed by Bond’s counter attack.

The monitors showed a barely discernible video feed of the two vehicles dangerously manoeuvring like hunter and prey. All of Q branch was tense, listening in and watching the chase. Bond’s jeep came closer, the deafening sounds of rapid fire, as the agent weaved and dodged, staging impossible feats with his jeep on that dirt road while getting shot at from several hostiles.

Q sucked in a breath at the noise of a shot followed by glass splintering, as Bond swerved dangerously close to a ditch, but pulled the vehicle back onto the road at the last moment.

With a screech of tyres and amidst a cloud of dust, the jeep spun on its axis, its reinforced rear bumper hitting the enemy’s vehicle at just the right spot to propel it off its trajectory. Bond threw himself out of the still moving car, assault rifle set against his shoulder the moment he came to a crouch, opening fire on the hostiles.

Q wasn’t able to follow the details of the subsequent action. With the satellite feed too corrupted, it was nothing but a blur of movements before his eyes. Forced to lower the volume of the audio on Q-branch’s speakers, with bullets flying and shots tearing through metal and flesh, Q could only trust that 007 would do the impossible as always, and win against the odds.

A few tense moments later the sound of an explosion ripped through the room. Q froze, along with all of the technicians, until a breathless and tense voice came through the speakers. “Hostiles eliminated, thanks for the grenades. I have reason to believe there are more on the way.”

“Understood.” Q surprised himself with the sheer amount of relief he felt.

He finished his by now lukewarm tea, then set to tracking the area. If other potential threats were following, time was even more of the essence.

* * * * *

Bond eventually passed the maintenance shed that had been the original destination of the escapees, following the road further towards the mountains. With Q’s reassurance that so far there was no sign of additional pursuers, Bond slowed down to check for signs of potential hideouts the four people might have chosen. If they had an ex-SAS man leading them, he knew what to look out for. Inconspicuous to the civilian eye, but a giveaway to anyone who knew what to look for.

A colour change at the side of the road caught Bond’ attention, together with vegetation that appeared to have grown a little too thickly. “Q, can you see anything on the feed?”

“Negative, 007. The atmospheric disturbances have increased. I’m almost flying blind.”

“Maybe you should put your glasses on.”

“Very funny, Bond. Your ability to utter immature comments even in situations like this is truly remarkable.”

“I take that as another compliment.” Bond cut out the engine.

“You’re greedy.”

“Always.”

Bond was unwinding the fabric from his head and face, putting his blond hair and pale features on display. Better safe than sorry, getting shot by those he was supposed to rescue wasn’t part of his plan. He got out of the seriously battered jeep, rifle deceptively casual over his arm, then carefully made his way towards what looked like a disturbance in the brushes.

“Gates?” he called out, “Colin Gates? I have been sent from London.”

It took some time, during which Bond called again, but didn’t move much further. If his mark was trigger happy he had no intention to make him feel threatened. Finally, a stocky man with a military stance peeled out of the shadows. Gun at the ready, but seemingly reassured at Bond’s appearance.

“Colin Gates?” Bond repeated, “I’m James Bond.” He recognised the man from the pictures Q had transferred.

Gates nodded once, but made no further move.

“Gates, I understand you’re wary, and I commend that, but you better believe I am who I say I am, because I’ve eliminated three hostiles about fifteen miles east and their friends are probably on my tail. So, unless you fancy taking your chances with some terrorists, I’d say you trust me and we get out of here ASAP.”

“You’re making a compelling case, Bond.” Gates flashed a grin, then called out to the area behind him, before he stepped into the road. He held his hand out to Bond and they swiftly shook in a firm grip. “Colin Gates, Head of Security, as you know."

Three people appeared behind him, quickly coming closer. Gates pointed at each of them in turn. “My fellow escapees are all engineers. Janet O’Donnell, Rogier Thibaut, Donald Ramsey.”

Bond took the time to shake hands with them. He’d learned in the past that wasting a few moments could yield greater results, especially with civilians. He needed them to trust him sufficiently to follow his orders.

“Anyone hurt?”

Gates shrugged. “A bit, but it’s just a flesh wound, nothing to worry about.” There was a rag tied around Gates’ left forearm, and Bond could hear Q bite back laughter in his earpiece.

Confused, he stilled and deliberately touched his ear for Gates’ benefit. “Q?”

“Nothing, 007. You wouldn’t get it.”

Bond frowned, but returned his attention to the motley group in front of him. “Other than Gates, do any of you know how to handle a gun?”

The two men replied in the negative, explaining how they were engineers and not mercenaries, but the woman piped up. “I do. Show me what you have.” Her accent identified her as American

“Rifle or handgun?”

“Either.” She was short, but certainly feisty.

“Rifle it is.”

Bond spent the next couple of minutes kitting out the group with less conspicuous clothes, water bottles, weapons and food rations, while Gates got him up to date. The group’s vehicle had died on them, and they had to abandon their hope of reaching the borders, having to hole up instead.

They were ready within record time and back in Bond’s jeep, where Gates climbed into the passenger seat and eyed the box of grenades with disturbing relish.

“Damn, but I missed this shit.”

Bond glanced across at the man whose irreverent comment he very much understood, then revved the engine and sped off in a shower of dust and dirt. The three others sat in the back, with strict orders to keep close observation on all sides.

“Did you think the hostage rescue was a tragedy?” Bond kept his eyes on the road.

Gates shrugged non-committal. “The hostage taking was. Bastards shot most of the Asian crew, poor buggers, said they didn’t need them.”

“And what about the Algerian Special Forces? Could have done the job better?”

Gates seemed to read between the lines straight away, because he smirked at Bond. “I’m not surprised you didn’t buy the ‘cock-up’ story either.”

“Not that I’d voice my thoughts over the comms.”

“I see...” Gates fell quiet, looking out of the side window. When he turned back to face Bond, he’d apparently decided to let loose. “Let’s face it, the Algerians did what no democratic government could have done. Certainly can’t imagine Her Majesty giving orders to eliminate the terrorists with limited regard to the hostages. They still got many more out than got killed.”

Bond understood perfectly. After all, he wasn’t officially there either. All hush-hush, lest anyone might suspect official British involvement. “The Western governments conveniently complained about not being allowed into the decision, and about not having been informed in advance. They made quite a racket, apparently.”

“Yeah, and privately I bet you my arse that they were bloody glad they could claim not having been informed. They would love to be able to act like the Algerians did, but can’t because of our ‘every life is sacred’ attitude.”

“Not quite,” Bond murmured in response to latter, but merely shrugged when Gates asked him to repeat what he’d said.

“We would have been hindered by having to avoid collateral damage,” Gates stated, “I guess I don’t have to mention the Iranian embassy?”

Bond nodded. “You’re also aware that I am not here, and should anything go belly-up there won’t be back-up. We’re on our own, is that clear?”

“Clear as Thatcher’s conscience.”

 Bond huffed, “I hope you meant the opposite.”

The next two hours passed uneventfully. They made fairly good headway west, towards the Moroccan border, but had to take the road south to the foothills of the impassable Atlas mountains.

Being constantly kept up to date by one of Q’s staff, not the quartermaster himself while the situation remained stable, they were into their third hour when the familiar posh voice was back in Bond’s ear.

“007?”

“Q, what a pleasure to hear you again.”

“Quit the quips, 007. There might be a little problem further up.”

“How little?”

“As little as the unknown number of landmines along the no man’s land this side of the green border.”

Bond tensed. “What sort?”

“Anti-personnel.”

“Of course they are. Give me more detail to work with, Q.”

Bond felt Gates’ highly focused gaze on him, as the man listened intently, immediately on high alert. The others in the back didn’t seem to have caught on, but Gates would have with his special forces background.

“A moment. Documentation on illegal landmines dating from the civil war in the 90s doesn’t tend to be served on a platter.”

Bond turned towards Gates, murmured ‘landmines at the border’, careful not to alarm the rest of their group.

“Let me deal with that,” Gates offered.

“I have orders to get you safely back to Britain, not to watch you get blown to pieces,” Bond hissed.

“I have the necessary training,” Gates was clearly unimpressed by Bond’s refusal, “do _you_ have the military background?”

“I am a naval commander.” Bond didn’t bother to elaborate.

“Navy. Sea. Water. Sea mines,” Gates challenged, “Army. Land. Landmines.”

Bond didn’t answer, because Q was back in his ear.

“Highest probability of blast mines. Designed to injure and maim, not to kill, but would disable the jeep and blow its tyres off at the very least. It’s not an armoured vehicle, after all. I am sending you through an area with the least likely mining. That does not mean you can be sure of not encountering UXOs.”

“Obviously,” Bond replied drily while avoiding a particularly deep pothole with a dangerous swerve. “We’ll crawl through.”

“What do you have in mind, 007?”

“Ask Gates that.”

“What? You can’t let…”

Bond interrupted his Quartermaster mid-rant, “sorry, Q, you’re breaking up.” He pulled the ear bud out and slipped it into the folds of his head covering, then concentrated on the road ahead.

* * * * *

The three engineers had been brought up to speed by the time they reached the no man’s land before the border. Gates had explained how he planned to observe the road ahead from the top of the jeep, using the binos he’d found in the stash of gear Q had thoughtfully supplied. He’d be looking for trip wires or firing wires, which would most likely be concealed and thin enough to be nearly invisible. Most importantly, he’d be on the lookout for odd features in the ground, such as patterns that didn’t correspond with the surrounding ones: changed plant growth or colour, mine materials that looked like strange mounds of dirt.

Q was back in Bond’s ear, perfectly professional while guiding them through the area. He had lost the video satellite feed completely, but was able to continue tracking the GPS.

The tension in the vehicle was palpable, and Bond decided not to let the three civilians know about the two vehicles Q had spotted behind them, playing catch-up. There was no point in worrying them further.

Their progress was unavoidably slow, but he’d rather risk an encounter with their pursuers than blowing up the jeep. The blast shockwave of hot gas and mine casing could potentially do lethal damage.

They had been navigating the no man’s land in silence for several minutes, except for Gates’ shouted directions, when Q spoke up again.

“007, are you receiving me?”

“Not a good time right now, but yes.” Bond’s voice was strained.

“There has been a new development. The Prime Minister is planning a visit to Algeria this week with no other than Mallory. I believe you know what that means.”

“Understood,” Bond growled, “absolutely no UK involvement on the ground right now.” He concentrated on following Gates’s directions to the letter. “Tell M I’ll pull the invisibility cloak over us.”

“Very funny.”

“It’s really not.”

Gates shouted at him to veer to the extreme right.

“I didn’t think so.” Q agreed and fell silent once more.

The next thirty minutes continued to be extremely tense, especially when Q informed Bond that the pursuers were getting closer. Eventually, though, Bond was able to stop the jeep and let Gates climb back inside.

“We have crossed the border and are heading for Oujda,” he informed Q, “ETA Angads airport in approximately thirty minutes.”

“Noted. A plane will be ready and waiting. Tell Gates my thanks.”

“Will do.”

Gates was grinning at him, as if he had heard the voice in Bond’s ear, muttering, “that was the best fun I’ve had in ages.”

Bond cast a knowing look across, then pushed down the pedal, and while the three engineers in the back slumped into their seats with relief, he raced them to safety.

* * * * *

They were seated in the plane and ready for take-off, when Q’s voice piped up once more.

“Well done, 007.”

“Praise from my Quartermaster? A rare honour indeed.”

“If you continue to be that annoying, I can promise you it won’t ever happen again.”

“I’m keeping my mouth shut.” Bond settled into his seat.

“Are you bringing back any of the equipment?”

“Does the radio count? Might be a bit dusty.”

“Well, thank you, it counts indeed. What about any of the electronic gear?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see.” Bond grinned to himself as he closed his eyes. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint my Quartermaster.”

Q’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Thank you, 007, thank you very much indeed, and have a nice flight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All tags, ratings, characters and notes refer to the entirety of this fictional work, not to individual chapters.


	5. Ambush

Q hadn’t been able to stay away from Bond’s protected file. If he felt a twinge of guilt reading details of the agent’s life that he shouldn’t be privy to, he ruthlessly tried to quash those. There were others who knew, such as M, and Tanner as the chief of staff, and definitely Moneypenny. It wasn’t as if Bond’s life was secret to everyone. It didn’t quite work on feeling guilty.

The reading turned into an increasingly hard task as he moved through the volume of files. Working chronologically through Bond’s life in black and white: training, medical and missions, physical and psychological evaluations. His success rate, as Q knew, was astounding, as was his propensity for injury and unexpected survival. The files didn’t catalogue all of his conquests in Her Majesty’s name, but they were quite clear on the matter of versatility. Moneypenny had been right, 007 had seduced a few male marks during missions, and with the same success rate as all of the female ones.

What Q hadn’t expected were the matter-of-fact reports of Bond’s life outside of SIS. The number of people he had deeply cared for and even loved, were exactly two. No, Q corrected himself, three. One mother figure, the constant throughout it all. Hard and unforgiving, demanding and with no discernible sentiment, and yet she had clearly cared for Bond in return, and he’d accepted and even needed the stability she’d offered. She was the one who had come first and died last. There was the wife when 007 had been young, Tracy, who was murdered on their wedding day. The many years without emotional attachments that followed, were proof of how the loss had affected him. Finally the woman for whom he had wanted to resign. Vesper Lynd, the one who had betrayed him, who had chosen death and taken all the answers with her into the depths of the canal.

Three women, and all of them had left him; dying a violent death.

Three magnificent _women_ , and Q wondered.

* * * * *

At the end of a long and arduous week, Q had just entered his flat and was in the process of activating the security locks, when his mobile rang. The ringtone left no doubt that he wasn’t going to be happy about the call.

“I’ve just got home!” He didn’t check the ID, didn’t wait for a greeting. If he sounded a little whiney, he decided he was allowed to be. This was one Friday evening he’d actually made it out of the office in time for lazing about. He’d promised Mr Turing an evening of cuddles on the sofa - if the blasted cat deemed to feel like it - and not much else other than takeaway, PS3 and telly.

“Good then, you’ll be ready to go. I’ll be two minutes.”

“What? Eve!” She’d already hung up. Q felt like banging his head against the door, but opted to press his forehead against the cool surface instead.

Mr Turing meowed demandingly from his carry-box, wanting to be let out, but Q ignored him. What were two minutes in the grand scheme of MI6 owning his life.

Good to her words, the doorbell rang not long after.

“What is it?” he all but barked after confirming it was, in fact, Moneypenny at his door.

“Let me in, darling, and I shall tell you.”

Q sighed and opened the door, still ignoring the squawling Mr Turing, who finally quietened down when Eve entered and immediately crouched in front of his carrying box. Of all people, the traitorous beast seemed to like her best.

Scratching his chin through the bars, she glanced up at Q, smiling sweetly (and deadly, if anyone asked him). “I’m afraid you’ll have to change into your gladrags and accompany me to Chequers Court.”

Q flopped onto his threadbare couch, a relic of his student days. “Why?”

“Because M caught the norovirus and is currently in no fit state to attend tonight’s dinner. Thus he is sending Tanner and me,” adding with an even brighter smile, “and you, of course.”

“Since when did being Quartermaster get me social invites?” Q moaned. “And let the beast out, before he chews his way out of there.”

She opened the hatch and Mr Turing went to wind around her feet, tail high and purring. “Q, you are MI6’s latest asset and shiniest new kid on the block. 21st century hacker genius, the brightest of the new generation, etcetera. Need I say more?”

Q scrunched further into the couch. “What am I supposed to do with the cat?”

“Feed him and leave him alone over night. You can’t tell me your cat doesn’t have a fancy automatic feeder system?” Petting Mr Turing all the while. “I am sure he’ll be happy snoozing.”

Q shot the cat a plaintive look, as if begging Mr Turing to disagree, but the contrary creature simply shoved his head more firmly under Eve’s hand. “Fine,” he sulked, stalking over to his kitchen. The sound of a tap being turned on and water filling a reservoir was heard, then a cascade of dry cat food falling into a bowl, and finally a refrigeration unit starting up - for the fresh component of the cat’s food.

Mr Turing abandoned his presently favourite human to beeline for the food. Eve followed into the kitchen, brushing a few cat hairs off the elegant coat she wore over a clingy silk dress.

“I knew you’d have built a feeding station for him.” She grinned at the contraption, “refrigerated, too.” Watching the cat gorge himself on the fresh wet food for a moment, before she clapped her hands. “Hurry up, darling, it’s tuxedo time for you.”

Q let her herd him into his small bedroom, and rummaged in his wardrobe. Emerging with his tuxedo, shirt, and bow tie, back from his Oxbridge student days.

“On,” she ordered, before turning her attention to his shoes. “They are disgraceful.”

“I have black shoes,” Q whined, giving in to the inevitability. “They’re on the shelf at the bottom of the wardrobe.”

She reached for them. “They are dusty.” Blowing exaggeratedly at them, before holding her hand out expectantly. “You either give me something to polish them with, or I’ll use your duvet cover.”

Q sighed and rummaged under his bed, coming up with a shoe-sponge that he’d filched from a hotel.

“Good grief.” Eve shook her head but took the flimsy plastic covered sponge and started to vigorously clean and polish the black dress shoes.

When Q didn’t move she looked at him sharply. “Do I speak Swahili? Get into that tux!”

“Can you at least turn around?”

“Oh darling,” she laughed, “you haven’t got anything I haven’t seen yet.”

Q stood his ground.

“Alright, you win.” She turned round dutifully, still polishing the shoes. “But I have to tell you, I’ve never met a gay man who was that shy around a woman.”

There was a thump as Q let go of his clothes and made an indeterminate sound that was stuck in his throat.

“Q? Do you need CPR?” She didn’t turn round.

“How the hell did you know?” he spluttered, picking up his clothes again.

Mocking laughter was his answer. “Darling, all the times I waved Bond under your nose; all the times I talked about him; all the times I dropped hints left right and centre about his incessant flirting with you…not a single instance did you tell me that you are straight and to stuff it.”

Q cursed as he got changed, knowing there was no retort. “How long are we stuck there?”

She was still grinning as she answered, “over night. Don’t forget your toiletries, we have a meeting with the Chancellor and the Deputy Prime Minister in the morning. We should be back in HQ around noon.”

Q’s muttered commentary on the morning meeting was unprintable. He stalked off to his bathroom anyway, where Eve heard the sound of items being stuffed into a washbag.

When he returned, she was holding the now shiny shoes out to him as a peace offering. “Come on, darling, you’ll enjoy it. There will be sparkling champagne, delicious canapés, exotic buffets, magnificent cocktails, and deadly boring speeches.”

Q glared, took the shoes and sat down on the bed to pull them on. “Right,” he said, standing up. “Let’s get this over with.”

“After you, Quartermaster.” She stood aside, then followed him through the door.

* * * * *

They arrived at the magnificent estate in Buckinghamshire after an uneventful ride. Moneypenny had kept her amused expression, while Q sulked, working away on his tablet. If his behaviour didn’t befit a thirty-two year old head of an MI6 department, he didn’t care. There was no one there to see, except for Eve, and she was his friend. Well, at least she was Mr Turing’s friend.

They were amongst the later arrivals, if the number of cars and stern-looking security personnel around was any guide. On exiting the car, they were shown inside the foyer, and greeted by some of the highly competent staff who gave them directions to their rooms, so they could freshen up before joining the other guests.

Q turned his head and spotted the one person he had not expected. “What the hell?” he hissed, glaring at Eve. She followed his line of vision, but only smiled and shrugged at him, before returning her attention to the staff and the room keys.

Bond stood there, calm and suave, wearing a tuxedo that fit perfectly and accentuated every sharp line of his body. He had a champagne glass in hand, sipping from it and looking as though he went to cocktail parties at Prime Ministers’ country houses every day of the week.

“What is _he_ doing here?” Q tried again.

“Requested,” Eve said breezily, herding Q up the stairs.

“And you didn’t think to tell me that 007 would be here as well?”

“Might have slipped my mind,” Eve lied shamelessly, as they walked down a long corridor.

“Really, Miss Moneypenny? I don’t believe you.”

“This is you,” Moneypenny stopped in front of a door, ignoring Q.

He glared daggers at her, but knew when to give up a fight he couldn’t possibly win.

With a jaunty smile she sauntered further down the hallway, and he resigned himself to suck it up and leave his bag in the room, before joining the guests downstairs.

His good intentions held until he opened the door, stepped through and was confronted with twin beds. The one closer to the door had an extremely expensive looking leather travelling bag sitting on it. A bag that sported a brass monogram on the top with two letters: JB.

“Moneypenny!” Q yelled. Loud enough for her to re-appear in the still open doorway.

“Yes?” she replied angelically.

“What is that doing there?” he pointed at the offending luggage.

“Short of rooms, you know how it is,” she replied cheerfully. “They must have thought you two wouldn’t mind.”

“You,” he wheeled round, pointing at her, “are a meddling so-and-so.”

She merely laughed at him, completely unaffected by his ire. “Maybe, darling.” With that she left, leaving him to stew.

* * * * *

Eventually, Q had calmed down. He threw his definitely-not-luxurious bag onto the other bed, then cleaned his glasses and unsuccessfully attempted to tame his hair, then finally made his way back down to the formal rooms, where the guests were mingling.

He really, really hated formal occasions. They were equally boring and anxiety inducing. The latter because there was no better opportunity for as potential terrorist, than to attack a gathering of a country’s senior political people.

Q couldn’t stop constantly checking out every corner, each nook and cranny, eyes darting around. Champagne glass forgotten in his hand, he assessed and judged, continuously evaluating the potential for electronic threats.

He was that occupied with his calculations, that he was taken by surprise, when a firm hand was placed on the dip in his back, and a solid body had slipped right next to him.

“Relax, Quartermaster,” Bond’s voice rumbled in his ear.

“Easy for you to say,” Q grumbled.

“You really think so? Would you like me to give you a detailed account of every exit, official and otherwise, of every person, bodyguard, dignitary, and, as far as possible, every waiter or waitress plus the cooks? Interested in the ground plan or the layout of the residence? Defensible positions, potential attack points, possible targets?”

“You would,” Q exhaled a bit. A server came by with a tray of beverages, and he quickly exchanged his empty champagne glass for some mineral water - which looked like the only non-alcoholic option around the place.

“That’s why I know the reason for your eyes are darting around the place like a rabbit being hunted.” Bond had taken another glass of champagne for himself, but his hand remained in its place on Q’s back.

There was no way for Q to remove the hand - or himself - without drawing attention to the two of them. If he was honest with himself, the warmth that radiated from the light touch was quite nice. He sighed, “when did you get the summons?”

“Three days ago. Apparently it was the Deputy PM’s wife who insisted on meeting one of the agents.” He took a sip from his champagne, glancing at Q as he did so.

“You’re lying, aren’t you? Miriam Clegg?”

Bond shrugged one-shouldered and smirked. “I haven’t even told you what Samantha Cameron requested.”

“The PM’s wife? I’m sure I don’t want to know.” Q knocked back his drink and wished he’d taken the champagne. “What’s this thing supposed to be about, anyway?”

Bond finally removed his hand, as he smoothly took the now empty glass from Q’s hand, stepped sideways to exchange it with a fresh one, champagne this time, then did the same with his own. The movement had been so quick and slick, Q only really noticed Bond’s manoeuvre, once he held the full glass in his hand.

“Believe it or not, but we do occasionally have to beg prettily for continued funding.” Bond tapped his glass against Q’s, “not that M worded it quite like that.”

“Now I _really_ don’t want to know what Samantha Cameron requested.”

Bond’s answer was a low laugh.

The doors at the other end of the room opened just then, and dinner was announced. They followed the other guests to the dining room, where a magnificent buffet had been set up along the entire back wall, with a whole host of chefs and servers behind it. The sheer variety and artistic arrangement was stunning, and nothing Q had ever seen.

Bond, the smug git, didn’t even look twice, checking out the seating arrangements instead. He stepped away from Q, and winked (winked!) at him, as he courteously helped no one else but the Deputy PM’s wife to be seated. Beside him, of course. Making Q question how many of the agent’s quips about wives and requests had been unfounded jokes.

After acknowledging Tanner and Moneypenny from across the room, Q searched for his own table and found it to be (he should have known, shouldn’t he?) right next to Bond’s. Not only was the table too close to the insufferable agent, the man was also in perfect line of sight. Whoever had drawn up the seating plan would have their internet access blocked for the next ten years, Q vowed to himself.

He didn’t have time to wallow for too long, as he found himself being forced to make small-talk with George Osborne, the Chancellor of the Exchequer. A man he particularly disliked, but who was instrumental in MI6’s funding. He had no choice but to pretend he was interested in the questions and sincere in the polite answers he gave in return.

The rest of the evening played out exactly as Q had expected: utter boredom during the sprinkling of speeches; equal boredom – if not worse – during talk at the table. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to socialise, rather that he deemed it an absolute waste of his time. He didn’t like most people to start with, being forced to converse with those he disliked even more, was a task he increasingly loathed with each passing hour. On top of that he was getting progressively distracted by the view of Bond, who charmed everyone at his own table. Making the ladies smile and titter and the gentlemen wish they were him. He played them all like he played poker: professional and smooth, never giving anything away until he won his hand. Q wasn’t sure what he thought about the display, but did grudgingly admire the skills.

At some stage, Bond looked up and focused on him, and when the looks grew in frequency and intensity, they left him desperate to leave the table to escape as far away as possible.

Whatever the man was playing, unfortunately it had an effect.

* * * * *

Three hours later, after much hide-and-seek from Bond’s disturbing presence, he managed to escape the politicians and their guests, Miss Moneypenny, Tanner, and most of all 007.

He’d just slumped on the bed he’d claimed at his, taking a much deserved breath, when the door opened, then closed. Of course. Bloody James Goddamned Bond. Standing in front of the door with a smug expression on his face and a body that shouldn’t look so spectacularly perfect in its tailored tux.

“Leave me alone,” Q sighed. “I’m tired. Go and be charming downstairs.”

“You find me charming?”

“No.” Q shook his head emphatically, “rest assured I do not.”

“I wish I had been able to lavish more attention on you tonight.”

“I’m very, very glad that you weren’t – and didn’t.”

“Are you sure?” Bond stepped into the room.

“Completely.” Q sighed again, more heartfelt this time.

“Perhaps, but I would have liked to show you my appreciation for your attire. I always knew there was something rather attractive hidden beneath the awful cardigans.”

Q didn’t answer, just hung his head in frustration.

“Q?” Bond eventually asked, “do I need to request medical assistance?”

Q’s head snapped up. “No, but you have to explain something to me.”

“I do not have to do any such thing,” Bond replied smoothly.

“Oh yes, you do. You have to explain to me why James Bond, special agent 007, MI6’s greatest womaniser, the Special Intelligence Service’s mighty lover of a thousand ladies, Her Majesty’s number one seducer of the cream of the female crop has been using his cheesy pick-up lines on _me_. I’m neither a woman, nor a lady, and definitely don’t belong to any female crop. Most importantly, I am your Quartermaster.”

Bond didn’t reply, until Q felt compelled to break the silence.

“You stubborn git!” He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. “Just bloody answer: are you gay?”

“Obviously not.” Bond smirked.

“Are you straight?”

“Obviously.” Giving the slightest inflection towards the end, Bond opened up a raft of possibilities. None of them Q was able to grasp.

“Are you bisexual?”

Bond made a gesture with his hand which indicated vague, if unimpressed agreement, before asking with ill-disguised mirth, “what is it with you and labels?”

“Really, Bond? You’re asking me that after all this?” Q shook his head in exasperation. “You _will_ answer me or your next gun will be a water pistol. Why. Are. You. Flirting. With. Me!”

“Because you’re pretty.” Nothing in Bond’s expression or voice gave anything away.

“Excuse me?” Q could feel his ire rising, along with his voice. “If you ever call me pretty again I will make sure that anything electronic around you will be thrown back into the stone age.”

“But you are.”

“Pretty?” Q hissed.

“I wasn’t the one who said it this time.” Bond’s face broke into a fully-fledged smirk.

“Oh God, you are taking the piss.” Q deflated.

“Don’t I always?”

“That’s the problem with you, you don’t take anything seriously.”

Bond’s silence continued long enough for Q to begin to feel uncomfortable.

“That’s not quite true, Q,” Bond eventually replied. His voice had dropped, and he sat down on the opposite bed. A solid and unmovable presence, never truly relaxed, always with a cloak of guardedness around him.

“Okay, then.” Q pulled in a deep breath. “I’ll ask you seriously now: what is going on here?”

“I fancy you. Enough to the point for you?”

Q rolled his eyes and sighed. “I am perfectly aware of the fact that you ‘fancy me’. It has been increasingly impossible to ignore.”

“That’s sorted, then.” Bond smiled benignly.

“Are you completely off your rocker, or is your ignorance for real?” Q’s frustration was getting the better of him. “Nothing’s sorted. You haven’t answered my question, and I still don’t know what the hell you think you are doing.”

“Seducing you.”

“If that’s the case, then I have to tell you you’re shit at it. Your technique might work with your usual conquests, but not with me. I have a brain, thank-you-very-much, and one that can easily outthink yours.”

“I know, you’re a genius, and surprisingly, I find that hot.”

“You find anything hot that moves.”

Bond’s arctic eyes sparkled with mirth. “Not if it is on four legs, I don’t.”

Q buried his head in his hands and let out a stream of muffled groans.

As if he’d found a hidden germ of mercy inside of himself, Bond stayed silent until Q had quietened down, allowing his hands to drop from his face.

“Q?” Bond asked softly. The banter and flirting, the whole arrogant shebang of his constant needling was gone. Replaced with something genuine.

“Yes, Bond?” Q sighed, hands in his lap.

“Please answer me just one question, honestly, straightforward, and without diatribes. Can you do that for me?”

Q took his glasses off and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Okay, I can do that.” Wondering if they were playing a game of truth or dare, with rules he wasn’t privy to.

“Do you want me?”

It was easier to keep Bond out of focus and as a blur without his glasses; so much easier than looking the man in the eye and truthfully answer this simple question with the simple truth. “Yes,” he finally told the shape in front of him.

He hadn’t expected for nothing to happen in response to his admission. No muscular man throwing himself at Q, no sudden ravishing, and definitely no smug declarations. Bond only uttered a quiet “good,” before he walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

If Q had been confused before, he was completely thrown now. He remained sitting on the bed, head back in his hands, glasses beside him. If only Bond’s tendency to keep throwing him off and do the unexpected wasn’t so damned fascinating. If only Q wasn’t inclined to become increasingly hooked the more complicated and unpredictable a puzzle was. If only he wasn’t gay, if only he had bothered to have sex more often, and if only Bond wasn’t so bloody irresistible.

He didn’t look up when the sound of the shower cut off and the bathroom door re-opened to allow Bond back into the room. Only when he didn’t move any closer did Q replace his glasses and looked up. He hadn’t expected to be faced with the unexpected once more: Bond stood there, stark naked. Looking at him with a mild expression while Q stared at the glorious body. Every scar was visible, every muscle and sinew; every secret hidden within the overwhelming physicality of that man.

It took Q a while before he scrambled his wits back together to form words. All his brainpower had gone straight south to his traitorous cock.

“That’s not very subtle.” At least his voice didn’t crack.

Bond smirked. “I’m not a subtle man.”

“No…no, you’re not.”

“Are you ever going to do something you want to do, without analysing it to death beforehand?” Bond’s smirk had smoothed into a smile.

Q swallowed. “Unlikely.”

“In that case I’ll have to _make_ you stop.”

Bond walked closer, and before Q’s brain could register the impossible, the agent had slid to the floor in front of him and nudged his knees apart, a firm hand on each of his thighs.

Looking up, his impossibly blue eyes on Q, he ever so slowly moved his face closer and down.

Q’s thighs jumped beneath Bond’s hand, breath hitching. “That’s not...not a good idea.”

“Why?” Bond murmured, lips almost touching the growing bulge in Q’s tuxedo trousers.

“Just... just is.”

Bond hummed softly. “My Quartermaster is lost for words, what a novelty.” Lips tracing the hardening outline, he pulled back slightly when Q let out a choked sound, thighs tensing.

“Q,” Bond rumbled, voice in its lowest register, “stop thinking about possible consequences.”

“I can’t.”

“What if I promise there won’t be any consequences?”

Q sucked in a breath. He wanted to believe that, really he did, and goddammit, why couldn’t he allow himself a foolishness for once. Just one indulgence, why the hell not.

“Okay, no consequences.” He nodded jerkily.

Bond gave him a rare fully-fledged smile, while his fingers made short work of kummerbund, fly then briefs, before he lowered his head.

By the time he had sucked down the fully hard cock with the skill of a pro, Q’s brain had short-circuited.

* * * * *

“Rise and shine, Quartermaster.”

Bond’s disgustingly awake voice was the last thing Q wanted to hear right now. Burrowing further into the duvet, he groaned, “go away.”

“No chance. It’s 7 AM and we have a breakfast briefing scheduled in half an hour.”

“I hate you,” Q griped, but stuck his mop of hair halfway out of the duvet, presented with the very pleasing view of a nude Bond, who waved a china mug in front of Q’s bleary eyes.

“Correct that. I think I love you.” Making grabby hands towards the mug, he pushed himself up to sit and reached for his glasses. It wouldn’t do to be offered a last, tantalising glimpse of that naked glory and only be able to see it in a blur. “Earl Grey?”

“I’m afraid not, the beverage tray only offered ‘English breakfast’.”

“Correction again. I find you merely tolerable.” With one hand finding and sliding on his glasses, the other taking the mug, he listened to Bond’s chuckle, as he walked into the bathroom. With the view of Bond’s delectable naked backside through the open bathroom door, Q took the first sip.

It was around the third mouthful of tea when it slammed into him: what the _hell_ had he just said to Bond? Since when was banter of the ‘I hate you’ and ‘I love you’ ilk acceptable morning-after conversation? Q buried his nose in the mug with a quiet groan and continued to sip, berating himself all the while. Next time he had to be more careful.

Wait, what? Next time? There wouldn’t be a next time.

“You’re an idiot,” he murmured to himself.

“Did you say anything?” Bond called out from the bathroom.

“No.” Q would have to add ‘preternatural hearing’ to the bastard’s scorecard. At least the agent behaved as nothing had ever happened, as if they hadn’t spent the last few hours in a very vigorous and sweaty clinch, that had left him with a bone-deep satisfaction he hadn’t felt for far too long. He was glad for Bond sticking to his promise of ‘no consequences’, and at the same time confused at a niggling sense of disappointment.

He really had to get laid more often, and emphatically not by Bond.

Not that it would ever happen again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All tags, ratings, characters and notes refer to the entirety of this fictional work, not to individual chapters.


	6. Interdiction

True to Bond’s promise, there were no noticeable consequences. Their banter continued, but if anything, the innuendo and flirting had decreased, while the professional trust remained the same.

Equally true to Q’s expectations, there was no indication from Bond as to a repeat of their encounter. Q steadfastly refused to investigate his thoughts concerning that. It had been a one-time occurrence; had been a way to get the curiosity out of their system.

Q was just glad there had been no fallout.

Honest.

* * * * *

Three weeks later, the relative peace of Q’s world at MI6 came crashing down, when 007’s mission went to pot in Siberia. Tracking Bond while he was doing extraction work for an oil company in the Ural had been too easy, and Q had been expecting for the shit to hit the fan at some stage. What he hadn’t expected, though, was the utter cock-up that took place.

Q stood tense in the middle of his realm, overviewing his technicians at their workstations. They’d been tracking 007 into a heated vehicle storage warehouse, which kept the 4x4s functional for the Siberian roads. Without cameras anywhere to access, Q was blind with only the audio feed to monitor the actions.

The agent had encountered unexpected resistance, and having lost his gun at the start of the fight, the sounds via the comms turned too soon from a scuffle of 007 against two men into a fight against several more. Despite the punches and kicks that Bond had placed well enough to cause angry shouts and grunts of pain, he lost against the overwhelming odds.

Q’s fingers were flying increasingly faster over the keyboard, while the room became quieter. The comms line was on speaker, the mission too complex for a single line between double-O and Quartermaster. The tension in Q-branch ratcheted up with every impact of fists and boots on flesh; flesh that undoubtedly belonged to the agent.

“Ray, check if you can get a camera feed anywhere in the surrounding area. Dal, monitor the pipelines, find the best location to rig an explosion. Pat, get into the closest military satellite.” Q’s orders were precise, delivered with a clipped voice and without hesitation, while his fingers continued to fly over the keyboard. Standing in the middle of the room in front of the massive screens, he looked every inch in control of the situation. “007, hold out. We are working on a distraction.”

No reply, nothing but the surround-sound of a continuing beating, and the pain filled grunts of the man receiving it.

Q kept working, talking, ordering and organising. Not a moment’s faltering, keeping everyone focused through the self assurance he showed in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds against their agent.

He’d become a damn fine actor at MI6.

His facade of cool and collected control threatened to show cracks when the fight stopped, and voices were heard instead; voices and the unmistakable sound of a body being slammed onto a surface; voices that uttered threats and detailed violent acts Q wished they’d done in a language he couldn’t understand.

“007, we’re planning an explosion.” Q kept on talking, reassuring, and forcing himself to stay calm even when the sound of cloth being ripped and vile laughter came through the speakers, accompanied by furious threats and curses from Bond.

“You’ll have a distraction shortly.” Keep talking, keep talking, and keep ignoring how Bond’s cursing was muffled, the man apparently gagged. Typing ever faster, Q directed his staff’s efforts to find a flaw in the infrastructure they could exploit.

He opened his mouth to give another reassurance to the agent, when simultaneously a man’s grunt, the sound of flesh against flesh, and Bond’s muffled scream filled the room.

Q cut the speaker line without warning, and the room fell into silence. Several of the technicians sat frozen at their desks, shocked at what they had overheard before Q had cut the audio feed, which was now only in his own ear.

It took one look from him for everyone to fall into frantic-but-controlled action, working to get their agent out through causing a distraction.

Q focused on the sounds he heard in his ear. Each of them sliced like acid and white-hot pokers through his brain, but he was no coward. He was MI6’s Quartermaster and 007’s handler.

“Bond, we’re getting there. Found a weakness in one of the pipelines close by.” He kept talking softly. Eyes monitoring his staff’s work, which had sped up dramatically, while focused on the man he knew was on the other side of the comms. 007 would hear him over the rhythmic, pained grunts he couldn’t quite suppress, and he was going to give the agent something to focus on in return. Something other than what was happening.

“You wouldn’t believe how lax the security is these days. Despite the high fuel prices, they aren’t investing in safety procedures.” Working hard to ignore the sounds of the men and forcing himself to tune only into Bond, Q tried so hard to push the unbidden mental images away.

“Just a few more minutes, Bond, we’re currently cracking the codes to a pump. That’ll be some impressive explosion, but I won’t promise how controlled it’ll be. But you like explosions, don’t you? Never can ignore the opportunity to blow shit up.” He nodded at a sign from one of the technicians, checked the code on one of the screens and quickly typed a command.

“Pump’s on the loose now, you could say. Shame all that fuel is going to waste, but the flow really is quite something. Not that it will affect the fuel prices in Britain, they are high enough already, and I’ve been wondering if the general populace is going to stage another fuel tanker strike.”

Q kept pacing and talking. His own voice drowning out the triumphant shout of a man. Ignoring the others’ laughter, and refusing to acknowledge the words that invited the next man. He very deliberately refused to be affected by the tortured grunt from Bond that coincided with sounds of flesh and force.

“You’ve got a couple more minutes before the place goes up in flames. The explosion will be on the east side, you got that? On the east.”

He heard Bond groan out an affirmation that was deliberate enough to let him know he had understood, but was missed by any of the men who were...mishandling him.

“Thirty seconds. Get ready, Bond.” Q gave the order for ignition a moment later. The whole of Q-branch fell into absolute silence as they waited for Q’s sign, or the sounds of the hoped-for explosion, as Q’s finger hovered over the speaker link. Only when a deafening roar overtook all of the other sounds he had hidden for the sake of Bond’s dignity, did he open the audio feed once more.

The room was suddenly flooded by the deafening noise of chaos and panicked yelling amidst secondary explosions - and above the chaos, the sound of flesh and bone breaking. Men screaming in pain before abruptly falling silent.

Finally Bond’s voice: hard and sharp, to the point. “All hostiles eliminated. 007 out.”

Then nothing. Bond had cut the comms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All tags, ratings, characters and notes refer to the entirety of this fictional work, not to individual chapters.


	7. Circumvallation

By the time Bond had been off the radar for over three days, Q had managed to get some six hours of sleep in total. He cursed the bastard, and cursed himself for good measure. He still hadn’t figured out how 007 did it, how he could possibly dampen the tracker in his shoulder. That niggling failure added to everything else that was driving him mad.

When Bond eventually made contact, it was all Q could do not to verbally tear him apart.

“Where the fuck are you?”

“Temper, temper, Quartermaster.” Bond sounded like he always did: amused, superior, with a dash of arrogance and a wallop of confidence. Smooth and suave and it was pissing Q off.

“You don’t get to tell me to keep my temper, 007. Not after you’ve gone off the radar for several days.”

“Sorry,” Bond didn’t sound sorry at all, “but I had to make my way across to Finland.”

“And while you were making your way across you didn’t have the opportunity to check in with MI6 to let us know that you are actually still alive?”

“I didn’t know you cared.” Bond’s voice had dropped, back into that damned seductive register.

“Of course, you idiot!” Q noticed the heads of his staff coming up, and he forced himself to take a deep breath and calm down. He had to keep up his professional demeanour, no matter what. He placed both hands on the standing desk and lowered his head. Concentrating on the keyboard in front of his eyes helped.

“What I meant to say, is that the last time you were in contact, 007, was right after a considerable explosion, which took place after a situation in which there was a likelihood of you having sustained injuries.” Treading on eggshells, not giving a name to what had happened. If Bond wanted to pretend that Q didn’t know, then so be it. He could give him that.

“I only had your word that all hostiles were eliminated.” Q didn’t feel the need to elaborate further. If Bond didn’t understand what the worst case scenarios in his Quartermaster’s head had been, he was a bigger arse than Q already considered him to be.

“It’s not the first time I went off radar.”

“No, it clearly isn’t, and it’s probably not the last time either, but you know what? It’s immature and selfish. Yes, selfish.”

The laden silence he got from Bond was balm on Q’s frayed nerves, and he took it upon him to continue.

“Do you think people don’t care about you? That colleagues don’t want to know if you made it out in one piece? Or, heaven forbid, that friends want to know if they can stop worrying?”

“Friends are a liability.” Of course Bond would hook into that last bit. “I don’t do friends.”

“Really? Tell Tanner that. Tell Moneypenny that. Tell your CIA mate Leiter that. Tell _me_ that.”

Silence once more on the other end, and this time Q had no idea how to interpret it.

“I don’t do friends.” Bond eventually repeated, then cut off the comms before Q could reply.

Q viciously slammed his hand onto the control, and muttered, “stupid bastard.”

* * * * *

Thirty-two hours later, Bond turned up in Q branch empty-handed, except for the data carrier he had been sent out to retrieve. The gadgets and weapon he had been fitted out with were all gone. Apart from bruises adorning his face, and a partially swollen eye, he looked as immaculate as ever.

“What happened to the radio?” Q had calmed down since their disastrous conversation.

“Got accidentally crushed under my heel during the last thirty hours.”

Q raised his brows. “Accidentally, really?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t deliberately destroy government property, would I?”

“Of course you wouldn’t.” Q poured all of his sarcasm into the words. He picked up the small external drive and examined the scorched surface. “Let’s hope the data is still intact, and the mission was worth it.”

Bond flinched. An involuntary reaction he hadn’t been able to suppress immediately.

Q cursed himself for his ill-placed choice of words and tried to deflect. “Want to see what’s on here?” 

“Naturally.” Bond smoothed down one spotless lapel, and followed Q into his glass office.

Q worked in silence for a while, while Bond remained standing behind him. The longer he just stood there, unmoving, watching Q’s screen, the more Q had to fight with himself until he finally cracked.

He craned his neck to look at Bond. “Are you okay?”

“Of course. I’m fine.”

Q knew rationally that this was his cue to shut up. Of course, he was an idiot and did the opposite instead. “Are you sure?”

Bond turned around. Pale blue eyes hard as glacier ice. “Why shouldn’t I be fine?” His voice matched the cold glare in sharpness.

Q swallowed. That really couldn’t have gone any worse. ‘Because I overheard you being raped’? That was the truth, but definitely not the right answer. ‘Because I worry about you’? Great, and that didn’t by chance have anything – so transparently – to do with the first option.

“Sorry, of course you are,” he said quietly instead. “Not bleeding out on the floor, so all’s well.” His feeble attempt at humour fell as flat on its nose as his genuine concern had. He really was an idiot sometimes.

Bond nodded once, then strode towards the closed door. To Q’s surprise he stopped there. Hand on the door handle, he slowly turned back round to face him from across the room.

“You have to understand something.” Bond’s voice had lost some of its sharpness. “Out in the field, my body is a tool. Most of the time it ends on top, and sometimes it doesn’t. Do you think that has never happened before? I dust myself off and get on with it. The old M understood that sentiment is detrimental to performance, and I don’t hold any sentiments over tools. Not the guns, nor your gadgets, and neither my body.” Bond let out a humourless huff. “I’m a very dangerous whore, Quartermaster. Don’t forget that.”

He was out of the room the next moment, leaving Q to stare at the closed door.

* * * * *

It turned out to be a very long day, and Q was thankful for the distraction, as he worked ceaselessly to guide 004 out of an uncomfortably tight spot in Azerbaijan. Only when he’d finally succeeded and the agent had been safely packed off onto the next available flight, without bleeding out (too badly) and having retrieved the vital information (mostly), did he notice it had gone past 2 AM.

He was tired and distracted by his growling stomach, which reminded him that the last thing he ate had been the Ploughman’s sandwich Moneypenny had got him at lunchtime. Jumping with an undignified squeak as he switched on the light in his office, he came face to face with 007 who had been sitting in the dark, in his desk chair. Looking completely at ease at the Quartermaster’s desk, in his secured office (how had the man got into it in the first place?) as if he belonged there.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Q managed to get out, heart still pounding.

Bond smiled faintly. He had an odd look on his face, one that Q couldn’t place. “Waiting for you.”

“Why?” Q got his act together sufficiently enough to grab the chunky kit-kat he’d stashed in his bag. He tore the wrapper and took a bite, deciding it was better to look like a masticating cow, than being faced with 007 on an empty stomach.

“To apologise.”

“Huh?” Mouth still full of kit-kat, Q stared at him. The bastard kept catching him off guard with the unexpected. Part of the incurable fascination, a treacherous voice told him.

Bond stood up and took a couple of steps towards the front of the desk, face to face with Q. “And to thank you.”

“For what?” Q forced the chocolate down a too-tight throat.

“To apologise for my earlier reaction, you didn’t deserve my anger, and to thank you for keeping on talking to me. Not that your monologue on fuel prices was particularly enlightening, but it was appreciated.”

Q was floored. He’d never expected anything like that, and he didn’t know what to do with it. It wasn’t like Bond to apologise, ever, nor to thank anyone. “You’re welcome,” was all he managed in the end.

Apparently that was the right thing to say, because the faint smile ghosted across Bond’s face once more, before he leaned in, close enough to kiss. Q’s eyes crossed beneath his glasses at the blurry nearness, but then Bond moved slightly back again, without ever touching him.

“You need to eat something, let me take you out.”

“At two a clock in the morning?” Q spluttered, still lost in the earlier confusion, but clinging onto the lifeline of banter. “I didn’t think you were into greasy kebabs.”

“You’d be surprised at what’s available in London at two AM.”

“Frankly, I’m not surprised at anything that’s available at night. I have been living in ‘the big smoke’ for a long while.”

The surreal feeling of being in someone else’s art cinema project only increased when Bond picked up Q’s parka and held it out for him, as if he helped a lady into her fur coat. Q slipped his arms into the sleeves regardless. He had no idea any longer what was going on and if the way Bond was behaving right now was the product of the trauma with accompanying disassociation; or if he’d really just dusted himself off and was going along his merry way.

“I can’t dissuade you from the erroneous notion of having to feed me, can I?” Q asked.

“No, because it’s not erroneous.” Bond held Q’s messenger bag out to him like a gift. “I promise it will be worth your while.”

Q’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief at how Bond seemed to have picked up the previous flirting without missing a beat. Despite what had happened during that mission – or maybe in 007’s mind nothing had happened? He still couldn’t get his head around that idea.

“Okay,” he agreed and grabbed the bag. He didn’t really have a choice.

They progressed out of Q’s lair, then exited M16 Headquarters through the usual complicated processes. To Q’s surprise, they bypassed the underground car park, and emerged into the night.

“So,” Q looked around, “where to?”

“You sound as if I were about to take you to some poker joint.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if you did,” Q muttered, “but I’d like food. Preferably decent.”

Bond pulled his classically elegant black coat around him – and Q would bet it was soft to the touch, cashmere or some other ridiculously expensive fabric. “I have just the thing for you. Fairly obscure little place, open all night to those in the know.” Smoothing his black leather gloves on he added, “ten minutes’ walk, tops.”

Q zipped up his own parka, far less elegant but practical, and followed.

* * * * *

The night continued to be an episode of Twilight Zone. Bond behaved as if nothing had ever happened, and Q continued to pretend that he didn’t know anything had ever happened. The pretence became easier the more Bond plied his Quartermaster with wine, which was remarkably good for a tiny, all-night Indian take-away with authentic cuisine, and an owner-cum-chef who’d once tried to kill 007.

The curry was probably the best Q had ever had. Mellowed by wine and spicy food, and listening to non-classified tales of Bond’s missions - with occasional comments from the Indian ex-henchman-turned-chef thrown in - Q enjoyed himself more than he’d thought possible. Bond was a remarkably good story teller, with his bone-dry humour and sharp wit.

“Is there _anything_ you are afraid of?” Q asked eventually. If he wasn’t so tired and tipsy, he wouldn’t be asking such stupid questions. As it was, he didn’t seem to be able to shut his trap.

He expected a quip, or a cheesy one-liner, or a sharp laugh and a definite ‘no’. Ne didn’t expect Bond’s thoughtful paused, eventually followed by, “yes, but it’s irrational.”

“Huh?” Smooth, real smooth, Q berated himself.

“It’s irrational because it shouldn’t matter to me.” Bond shrugged.

Q wasn’t sure if he was simply too sozzled, or if Bond had actually tensed up. “Tell me anyway. I’m your Quartermaster, I’m used to your irrationality.”

“If you put it like that…” Bond seemed to have come to a decision. “It shouldn’t matter to me where my corpse ends up. I’ll be dead and gone, I won’t _know_ anything, but even after all my resurrections, I’m still afraid of rotting somewhere, without anyone knowing. Not that I have anyone who’d want to know.” He shrugged again.

This time Q was certain his eyes hadn’t been playing tricks. This really did affect Bond, and the thought sobered him up better than several Alka Seltzers could, washed down with pints of water. “I would want to know.” The words were out before his brain caught on.

Bond didn’t hide his surprise at Q’s admission. “It’s appreciated.”

Q nodded, a plan already forming in his mind. He was going to do something about Bond’s one and only fear, and it would be beautiful in its impossibility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All tags, ratings, characters and notes refer to the entirety of this fictional work, not to individual chapters.


	8. Minefields

Q was too occupied with his plans and ideas to properly notice that Bond had paid, then got them both into their coats, and steered them out of the door. It took the cold breeze biting at his face and Bond asking something, to return his focus onto his surroundings.

“Are you alright, Q?” Bond repeated himself.

“You’re asking _me_?” Mouth: open. Brain: shut. Damnit, a night in the Twilight Zone hadn’t eradicated his earlier concerns. Worries that Bond picked up immediately, and tensed in response.

“Q,” Bond’s voice managed to find the balance between warning and gentle, “don’t.”

Q didn’t.

Faced with the man standing in the freezing London night, the orange glow from the street lamp casting craters of light and shadow onto his weary face, with his gloved hands in the pockets of his coat, shoulders raised and collar up against the cold, and caught in the unrelenting focus of those pale wintry eyes - he realised that he shouldn’t.

“Okay.” Q pushed his glasses back up his nose and blew onto his hands.

Bond nodded. “Come to my place.” He didn’t make it a question.

Q should be insulted at the assumption, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care about what he should or should not be doing or feeling. Except that this had been inevitable from the moment the agent had waited for him that night.

“It’s nearly four AM and I have to be at a meeting at eight and need to get some work done beforehand.” His excuse sounded feeble even to Q’s own ears. Predictably, Bond merely offered his typical ghost of a smile.

“So do I. I promise you’ll be ordering your minions around in time.”

Q sighed, breath steaming before him. “I don’t think…” he never finished because Bond cut him off.

“Then don’t think.” Bond held his hand out in a beckoning gesture, and Q stared at it.

This shouldn’t be working on him, it really shouldn’t. He knew better, this wasn’t a good plan, he had no idea how fucked up Bond really was beneath all the bravado that appeared ever so genuine. But he wanted. He could be a selfish bastard, too, and he was sick of being the responsible one in this, whatever ‘this’ was.

“Please,” Bond added quietly.

One single, unexpected word, and Q nodded. “Taxi?”

He could sleep another time.

* * * * *

Bond’s flat was as elegant and masculine as it was utterly devoid of any personality. White walls, tasteful art on the walls and black leather seating, with stainless steel throughout the kitchen area. All clean and sterile, and very much not lived in. This was a place to exist, not to live in.

Q had sobered up during the taxi ride, but not enough to not be surprised at Bond’s hands on his shoulders, pulling off his parka. Turning Q around to face him, his hands moved to the buttons of the cardigan.

“What are you doing?”

“Firstly, do you always state the obvious?” Bond answered quietly, with an amused expression. “Secondly, do you always have to question everything?”

“Yes, that’s my job.” Standing still, he allowed Bond to peel the cardigan off him, despite wondering why the hell he was letting the man undress him.

“Remember what I told you at Chequers Court? Stop thinking, Quartermaster.” Bond was working on Q’s tie now, smoothly undoing the knot.

“I can’t,” Q sighed, but couldn’t help swaying closer towards Bond. Going with the flow felt like the easiest option.

“Then help me to get you out of your clothes.”

Q raised his brows. Part confusion, part exasperation, part whatever-the-hell-he-knew. “What about yours?”

“That’s the spirit,” Bond quirked a small grin, pulled the tie off and started on the buttons of Q’s shirt collar.

There was nothing different about him to that time at Chequers Court. Bond was as seductive as before, as clever with his hands, lips, cock and body, and as conscientious a lover as he had been that first time. If anything, Q thought during the few moments he mustered the brainpower to form actual thoughts, he was too perfect.

* * * * *

Bond was as good as his words, not that Q had expected anything less. Despite a complete lack of sleep he took them both into HQ early, and even produced tea and toast for breakfast.

They never mentioned what happened during the night, just like they’d never mentioned the night at Chequers Court. It was just a shag, after all, and the fact it had been a second one only made it more convenient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All tags, ratings, characters and notes refer to the entirety of this fictional work, not to individual chapters.


	9. Frontal Assault

Bond’s next mission was scheduled a few days later. Q only got to see glimpses of him in the interim, for which he was thankful. He kept telling himself that the reason there had been a repeat was only because the agent needed to prove something to himself. Q decided that he would stick to that explanation, which was a lot safer for his peace of mind than any other option.

The relative peace gave Q time to develop and tinker with the idea for a prototype of the new generation chip. He finished building it just in time for 007 to saunter into Q-branch, expecting to be kitted out for Colombia.

“I have something for you,” Q addressed the agent the moment he entered the brightly lit bunker.

“Do you, now?” Bond’s slightly raised brows and faint smirk should have been less attractive and more infuriating.

“Follow me.” Annoyed with his own Pavlovian reaction, Q fell back to the tried-and-trusted sharpness. He didn’t look if Bond followed him, knowing the agent would always be too curious to miss out on  potential new gadgets.

“Do I finally get my exploding pen?”

“No,” Q frowned, “something much better.” Reaching into his desk drawer, he pulled out the sterile tracker gun he had purloined from medical.

Bond looked at it, then back up at Q. “M’s not happy with the trackers he’s already got on me?”

“M knows nothing about this. It’s a prototype.”

“For what?”

“The chip is completely untraceable, since it only activates at the event of the person’s death.”

Bond stared at him, disbelief written all of his face. “You made me a death tracker.”

“Well, yes,” Q shrugged, faking indifference. “You did say you didn’t want your corpse to rot somewhere.”

“No, what I said was I had an _irrational fear_ of rotting somewhere.”

“Let’s not split hairs, 007.” If he was going to blush now, Q vowed to himself, he would punch himself in the face, thank-you-very-much.

Bond smiled. Honest to goodness smiled. “Thank you, Q.”

“Well, yes, you’re welcome.” Being flustered wouldn’t do either, Q firmly told himself.

“How does it work?”

“It’s untraceable because it does not send out signals until it is activated by the loss of electromagnetic impulses. Basically, when the heart stops.”

“Clever.” Bond looked genuinely impressed. “Where does it go?”

“It should be as close to the heart as possible. I suggest the pectoral muscle.”

Bond nodded, fingers already on the buttons of his shirt.

“What, just like that?” Q had expected more questions, or maybe even doubts.

“You made it, that’s good enough for me.” Bond didn’t say ‘I trust you and your work’, but Q understood the implication just as well.

“Don’t forget it’s a prototype and it hasn’t been signed off by M.”

“Not official, then.” Bond was back to his smirk.

“Not quite, no. You better close the door.”

Bond complied readily, then threw his tie over his shoulder and finished undoing enough buttons on his pristine dress shirt to pull it open over his chest. “Do your worst.”

Q huffed. “Not in the office.”

At Bond’s lewd smirk Q realised he had been the one to initiate a stupid bit of flirtatious banter for the very first time. He swore to himself that he wasn’t going to make that mistake again. Score three against himself so far.

“Hand me that antiseptic wipe over there.” Q’s voice had turned unnecessarily sharp, but he really was too annoyed with himself to care.

Again, Bond did what he was told, but the challenging grin on his face didn't vanish. That, combined with the sight of Bond’s magnificent pec, which he’d had opportunity - twice - to get thoroughly acquainted with, made Q wipe the area of thick muscle and scarred skin much harder than necessary. Pushing the tracker pistol against the flesh, he swiftly pulled the trigger, shooting the minuscule chip deep into tissue.

Bond hardly flinched, merely rubbed over his chest once it was done.

“Aren’t you going to kiss the booboo better?” he leered at Q, who glared in return and moved his attention to a nearby tablet.

“Hardly. You’re in my office, don’t forget that. Not exactly the right place to ‘kiss booboos better’.” He was proud of how he managed to keep his voice aloof and unaffected.

“Shame.”

Q ignored Bond’s quip, quickly inputting data while the agent fixed his clothes.

“Oh, and I just upgraded your tracker chip.” Q looked back up after a moment. This time it was his turn to look smug.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t bother trying to go completely off the grid next time.” He grinned unabashedly into Bond’s incredulous face. “Just a few lines of code...”

“You tricked me.” Bond sounded positively sulky.

“Not really. The chip I made for you is designed to do exactly what I told you.”

“And you are absolutely sure it will work?”

“Well, you won’t know, will you?” Q quipped.

“Q.” One syllable, spoken softly.

The effect on Q was stronger than a punch could have been, and he cursed himself. Time and place, and this was not it.

“I’m sorry, Bond. It will work, I give you my word. Everything I ever made has worked just fine, and this will, too.”

“Sometimes I’m glad about your arrogance.” The smirk was back on Bond’s face as if the moment of seriousness had never occurred.

“I’ll remind you of that the next time you complain.”

Bond huffed a laugh, and the rest of their exchange was taken up with weapons and gadgets being exchanged for banter. Just like always, then.

* * * * *

Getting into Q’s flat was not as difficult as Bond had anticipated, though the anticipation had not included a welcoming committee. He was faced with a furious, screaming, spitting ball of fur in the form of Mr Turing as soon as he stepped past the entryway.

Trying to catch the cat, much less quieten it, was impossible. Not without doing serious damage, for which his Quartermaster would undoubtedly have had his hide. Before he could come up with a different strategy, the lights came on to a very bleary-eyed, glaring Q.

“What are you doing here?” he snarled, as Mr Turing calmed down and jumped up onto a high bookshelf.

“Visiting you.” Bond tried to suppress a wince as he straightened up.

“Couldn’t you have used the doorbell?”

“I didn’t know if you were in.” As excuses went, this was a pathetic one, and Bond looked like he was painfully aware of that.

“Not much point coming in then,” Q seemed exasperated and annoyed more than anything else. He stalked back into the flat, towards the kitchen, where an imposing tower with three bowls - one full of water, one with dry cat food, and one empty - took up most of the floor space. “Were you expecting tea and biscuits?” he asked snidely, but turned the kettle on nonetheless.

“Would you believe me if I said I didn’t expect anything? Except for not being bothered by anyone from HQ for a few hours.” He carefully leaned against the doorframe, simultaneously watching Q busy himself with making tea and studying the cat feeding contraption. He looked as casual as anyone could who had to put most of the weight of his body against a support to keep standing.

His sudden flinch, and a sharp intake of breath, as Mr Turing forcefully bumped up against him on the way to his feeder, caught Q’s attention. “What have you done to yourself this time?”

“Nothing.” Bond lied, crossing his arms over his chest to hide a blood stain on the shirt.

“Really.” It was sarcasm more than disbelief, though plenty of both. “Any blood?” Q asked, and opened a drawer, retrieving a first-aid kit.

“Hardly any.”

“Sit down,” Q ordered.

Bond sighed but complied. It seemed he knew when he was out-stubborned. “I came off a motorbike.” Frowning at the sheer embarrassment of that, Bond limped to the chair and gingerly sat down. “I was wearing swimming trunks at the time.”

Q looked at him doubtfully, and then decided to take it at face value. “Clothes off then, I’ll get the Dettol.”

“Your foreplay is lacking tonight,” Bond commented mockingly.

“You seem to be assuming that there’ll be afterplay. Or any playing at all, actually.” Q had returned with some gauze and a basin.

“Am I wrong in my assumptions?” Bond asked, while dutifully getting out of his suit jacket, then working on his shirt and tie.

“Very much so, if you break into my flat and frighten my cat.” Q diluted the Dettol, then stepped around Mr Turing, who didn’t look frightened so much as resentful of Bond’s presence.

“I could go back and ring the doorbell?” Bond asked hopefully, as he let the shirt slide down his arms. The abrasions and bruises on his left side were truly spectacular, and went far down beneath the waistband of his trousers. He slipped out of his shoes and bent stiffly to pull off his socks, before undoing his belt and getting rid of his trousers. When he stood up in his black boxer briefs, ready for Q’s inspection, the full extent of damage was visible. The bruises and abrasions went all the way down the left side, with a particularly nasty concentration around the hip and thigh area, and some nasty scraping on his knee and shin.

“Why exactly were you on a motorbike in swimming trunks?” Q asked, putting the basin of diluted antiseptic on the small dining table. “And I hardly think ringing the doorbell would make a difference now.”

“Even if I promised you a blow job?” Bond craned his neck to look at Q. “As for wearing swimming trunks, I tend to do that when I’m swimming. The necessity for being on a motor bike came along when I spotted the target trying to get away. Quick thinking and all that. I was told it’s necessary out in the field.” He smirked.

“Did you get your target?”

“Of course. This is probably my cue to say ‘you should see him’.”

Q dumped the gauze into the basin. “Clean yourself up a bit, I’ll get some dressing for that nasty one on your shin.”

“What, you’re not tending to my wounds? I’m disappointed.” Bond was sliding down his briefs, bending forward to take them off. Perfectly timed, of course, just as Q stared at the muscular, bare arse right in front of him. “How am I going to reach my back?” Bond pleaded.

Caught, Q took a moment before remarking, “doesn’t look too bad, actually, but I’ll get the spray.” He disappeared down the tiny hall, leaving Bond alone with the fat, malevolent cat, who simply glared at him.

Bond frowned at Q’s retreating back and his own disappointment, before reluctantly starting to clean up the cuts he could reach with the Dettol-soaked gauze. Every time he returned to the bowl, he glared at the cat which glared right back. It was a stand-off neither could win.

“Stop glaring at the cat,” Q walked right between them as he came back out with a larger first aid kit, “and turn around.”

Bond followed the order and did turn round to present his bare back. “Only if the cat stops glaring at me first.”

Q said nothing, and the sound of chewing indicated that the cat was back to being, well, a cat, and not a malevolent hellbeast. Bond winced at the sting of the cool gauze on the grazes on his back. “At least there’s no gravel,” Q pointed out.

“Told you, it’s nothing.”

Q watched as Bond’s body relaxed in increments, as if forcing himself to do so.

“There,” he finished. “They should be okay for the night and we can see if any of it needs covering up in the morning. You take the bed, I’ll be on the sofa,” he said firmly.

“No way.” Bond turned round to face Q. “If anything, I’ll take the sofa.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Q snorted. “You’re not bleeding on my sofa. Sheets I can wash. The bedroom's over there.” He barely halted himself from making shooing motions.

“I’m not bleeding any longer,” Bond insisted, and stepped closer to Q. “My earlier promise still stands.” His voice had dropped a couple of notches.

It took a moment for Q to remember what Bond was referring to. “Not in your condition,” he retorted, “and not in front of the cat.”

“First off, my condition is perfectly fine.” As if to emphasise the point, he slipped his hands around Q’s narrow waist. “Secondly, your cat? Really? Just keep him out of the bedroom if you’re that squeamish.” The firm grip of his hands bled heat through Q’s thin pyjamas. “Last but not least,” Bond rumbled, “you can always just let me lay down on my back and think of England, while you fuck my face.”

The involuntary shudder under Bond’s hands told him just how much the latter appealed. For once, he prevented himself from smirking as he drew the unresisting Q into the bedroom, shutting the door firmly. Mr Turing paused in his midnight snack as the door closed, and then quite pointedly made his way to where Bond’s trousers lay forgotten on the floor, treading on them, rubbing firmly on them so that his heavy winter undercoat came off all over the fine material, before curling up on the soft cloth for the rest of the night.

* * * * *

The insistent ring of the doorbell woke Q in the gloomy predawn. He pulled the pillow over his head, wanting to stay in the comfortable warmth he found himself enveloped in, but the noise did not stop. The body close to his let out a groan, but didn’t stir. Q gave into the inevitable, when the blasted doorbell rang again.

“Bloody buggering hell!” he muttered as he crawled out of the bed and pulled on the discarded pair of pyjama bottoms, then padded out into the main room, to up the intercom. “What do you want?” he asked the visitor, who was visible on the small, grainy screen.

“I need to talk to you,” none other than Eve Moneypenny pleaded on the screen.

“What about?” Q yawned, but started to punch in the access code anyway.

Eve pushed the door open and a few moments later she entered the flat. “We need you to check on Bond’s whereabouts. The Border Agency told us he had returned last night, but since then we lost...” She stopped abruptly, staring at the open bedroom door, where a very naked, very armed 007 had his gun trained on her.

“You didn’t report in.” Q stated as he turned back to Bond.

“Obviously not.” Bond lowered the Walther since he had nowhere to stash it.

Moneypenny had still not said anything, staring wide-eyed at Bond, until she finally visibly shook herself and tore her gaze away from the - magnificent - display. “Well...” drawing out the syllable until it ended in a grin that threatened to split her face. “I didn’t know you had such pretty items in your home.”

Q, much to his mortification, actually _blushed._ “It wasn’t like that!” he protested lamely.

“Yes, it was.” Bond, the bastard, commented then stalked into the kitchen.

Eve continued to grin at Q with the brightest ‘told-you-so’ smirk possible, and anything Q was about to snap at her was cut off by Bond’s roar of outrage as he picked his trousers off the floor.

“Your bloody cat shed his bloody fur all over my suit!”

The cat in question was reclining on top of Q’s kitchen cabinets, well out of reach. Looking down at the humans with slitted ice blue eyes.

“I have a lint roller,” Q went to rummage in a drawer while Eve burst into laughter once more.

“What is it?” Bond growled at her.

“You...and the cat,” Eve said when she got her breath. “The great James Bond, thwarted by our Quartermaster’s cat. You’ve got the same colour eyes, and he’s even wearing a tuxedo.”

“I am not, and we do not.” Bond was adamant as he held his spoiled suit trousers in front of his groin.

There was a light thump as Mr Turing jumped off the cabinet and ambled past Bond, to twine around Moneypenny’s legs, purring loudly. “Hmmmm,” Eve continued, petting the creature, “he’s also athletic, destructive, and devastatingly charming when he wants to be. I’d say you two have quite a bit in common. I only wonder what it says about our Quartermaster’s taste in pets.”

Q took that as his cue to push the excavated lint roller into Bond’s hands and flee the room with the flimsy excuse of needing a shower. A moment later the bathroom door slammed shut.

“Did you just call me the Quartermaster’s pet?” Bond glared at Eve.

“Why else are you always around begging for his attention?” she replied, picking up the cat and cradling him on her shoulder. To add insult to injury, there was only minimal cat hair shed on her jacket.

“I am not!” Bond replied vigorously, as he tried to remove the cat hair from his grey suit. White and black hairs, a perfect combination to look truly dreadful. “You are enjoying this far too much, Miss Moneypenny.”

“Call it payback for the ruckus you’ve caused this time with all alerts out that you’ve been waylaid...again.”

“You didn’t think of checking my tracker, did you?” The trousers were finally acceptably cleaned enough for Bond to put them on. With chagrin, he found his shirt had fared not to be much better, but then the blood stain had ruined it anyway.

“It faded once you landed,” Moneypenny explained reluctantly.

Bond blinked. Shirt forgotten in his hand, he looked at her. “Come again?”

“Your tracker. Clear as a bell when you were aboard, faded away to nothing more than a glow once you landed.”

“Right.” Bond looked at her thoughtfully for a moment longer, then slipped on his shirt. “No idea, I can’t help you there.”

He busied himself with sitting down to find socks and shoes. He was still stiff, in fact more so than the night before because apart from anything, there had been a lot less ‘lying back and thinking of England’ after the first round, than he’d initially suggested.

“No, you might not be able to help, but I think I know who can.” Eve fixed her gaze on the bathroom door as Q stepped out warily, a large towel wrapped around himself.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Eve.” He had learned to fake innocence with the best of them, even if he’d never reach the lofty heights of Miss Moneypenny.

Eve narrowed her eyes, disbelieving, as she continued to stroke the cat. “Really,” she said, then bent down to put Mr Turing down. “Either way, both of you are due at HQ. M wants a word.”

“I am not going to arrive there with cat hair all over me.”

“Tough,” Eve smiled mercilessly, “you shouldn’t have thrown your clothes onto the floor. Was it that urgent?” Her sardonic expressions would have lesser mortals tremble in fear.

“Eve!” Q called out from the bedroom where he was getting dressed.

“You might have noticed that I needed the abrasions treated.” Bond scowled.

“I notice they weren’t so bad to prevent you from anything.”

“Nothing ever prevents me from doing anything I truly want.” He was closing the buttons of his shirt while smirking at her.

“Mmmmm,” Eve’s noise was noncommittal, “but do you really want what you do?”

His fingers stilled on the top button. “What are you insinuating, Miss Moneypenny?”

“I’m saying that the Quartermaster is too important to all of us to be toyed with for someone else’s amusement.”

Bond’s face hardened. “You make it sound as if the Quartermaster were a fragile boy to be toyed with.”

Eve snorted. “Hardly, but my question remains: what is your game, James? Is it going to interfere with your job or his?”

“There is no game, it’s completely straightforward.” Looping the tie round his neck, Bond’s facial expression hadn’t softened one bit. “I’m rather offended that you think either of us would be unprofessional enough to be affected negatively.”

Eve raised an eyebrow. “First time for everything,” she observed, but whatever she was going to say next was cut off when Mr Turing coughed. He pointedly spat out a large hairball right on Bond’s shoes, causing the agent to curse profusely, and Moneypenny to rummage for a paper towel.

The day could only get worse.

* * * * *

Their post-mission shags quickly became something of a routine during the following months. Bond would return from a mission - his tracker signal dampened the moment he’d landed safely - then wouldn’t report into HQ before the next twelve to twenty-four hours.

M complained, but as Bond always completed the essentials of his mission well before he stepped foot into Britain, M confined himself to grumbling. He did give pointed reminders for Bond to hand in the balance of his reports, peppered with occasional threats not to approve any expense requisitions that were not submitted in a timely fashion.

Special Agent 007 and his handler, MI6’s Quartermaster were has professional as ever – or, in their case, as _un_ professional as their banter – with no discernible change in their behaviour. There was no murmured ‘stay safe’, and neither an increase of gadgets being brought back intact. There were no secret smiles or hidden glances, and if she didn’t know, Eve thought, she would have no way of figuring it out. Whatever _it_ was.

The sex, Q decided, was fantastic. Perfect, even. He got laid regularly, didn’t have to keep secrets from his shag, because they were both at MI6. Most of those times they shared a bed, occasionally Bond left before the morning. The man was indeed as much an amazing lover as all his conquests would have anyone believe. He was perfectly skilled.

Faultless.

What Bond thought remained a mystery to everyone but himself, but he kept coming back, without fault.

If he left occasional gifts on the kitchen counter, such as a turquoise jar with Earl Grey tea from Fortnum & Mason, or a box of _real_ Turkish delight, neither of them mentioned it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All tags, ratings, characters and notes refer to the entirety of this fictional work, not to individual chapters.


	10. Counter attack

All in all, things were going as well over the next months as might be expected in the circumstances, until M called them both in for a mission briefing.

Bond had some idea of what the subject would be, but as was his habit, he was reclining in the chair as if he owned the place, even though that happened to be M’s office. He glanced up when Q came in.

“Good, you’re here,” M gestured for Q to sit down. “This one’s going back a bit for you, Bond.”

The agent nodded. “I presume it is about Major Sreten Pavkoric?”

M nodded. “Indeed. No hide nor hair of him for nearly fifteen years, and suddenly, he resurfaces in Africa. He seems to be working as a broker of sorts.”

“Broker for what?” Q hadn’t been involved in the Pavkoric research so far.

“Interrogation specialists?” Bond asked acidly.

“He seems to have moved on from his old activities,” M continued smoothly. “He’s quite active in connecting parties who have aligned interests, advising on diversifying investments, and sourcing specialised equipment. Quite a well-connected man, the Major.”

Bond nodded, “and what, exactly, do you want me to do?”

“We’re interested in talking to Major Pavkoric, given the recent developments in central and north Africa, where he seems to have quite a few clients. Preferably here.”

“Understood. Information and target extraction.” A fairly standard mission, then.

Q had been typing furiously on his tablet through the exchange, finally looking up. “There’s a connection that keeps being flagged up. General Godwin Okwundo from Nigeria.”

“What is the connection between a Nigerian general and a former Yugoslavian torturer?”

“Mali.”

Bond nodded. “Makes sense.”

“How so?” M asked.

“I saw Pavkoric in Mali, Sir.”

“Of course,” M remembered. “I’m afraid we have lost track of Pavkoric, which is where Q comes in. The operation has become more time sensitive as well, because we have gathered intelligence that some of Pavkoric’s associates are planning a disruption of the London Financial market. Unfortunately, we have not been able to gain access to the list of associates.”

“Any known sponsors?” Bond enquired

“No, we have not been able to find any countries or larger organisations who might be supporting Pavkoric’s activities. He appears to be a freelancer.”

Q snapped his head up. “More difficult to trace, but also less access to the latest developments, and less ability to hide.” He tapped some notes into his tablet.

“Which means that the Nigerian general is our best lead at the moment,” Bond agreed.

M nodded. “It appears so. I want you on a plane as soon as sufficient intel has been gathered by Q-branch.”

Q nodded. “Right onto it. Come see me at 1800 for your kit and then onto the last flight.”

“To where you are not sure yet,” Bond quipped, and stood up. “If there isn’t anything else, Sir,” addressing Mallory, “I’d like to get to the shooting range.”

“By all means.” M dismissed them both.

* * * * *

1800 sharp, Bond appeared in the doorway to Q’s glass office.

Mr Turing sat on the desk, looked at Bond, and then very deliberately turned around 180 degrees to sit with his back to the agent. The cat’s movement caught Q’s attention and he looked up. He had been too occupied with the fancy new table-sized touch screen and the interactive maps and networks displayed on it, to hear Bond arrive.

“You’re on time,” he stated blankly.

“I always am.” Bond adjusted his cuffs, then strode over to the table-screen. “What am I looking at?”

“Map app,” Q said simply. “Full version is being loaded on your tablet, shows your location, angles of shots in three directions, options for infrared, bugs, security cameras, electromagnetic fields, co-ordinates, distances and routes. _If_ ,” he emphasised the word, “you lose the tablet, or it breaks, it’s coded to your hand and finger prints so it will stop working. I’ve also put a light version on your phone, which has location, route calculation and security cameras.”

Bond glanced sideways at Q, with an impressed look on his face, but if Q had expected praise, he was taken by surprise.

“What’s your real name?” Bond asked out of the blue.                       

“Q.” He reeled from the unexpected, Bond once more giving evidence to why he couldn’t help being fascinated by that man, whose only predictability was that of being unpredictable.  

Bond frowned. “I’m sure you weren’t born ‘Q’.”

“It doesn’t matter what I was born as, I am Q now.” While he had expected that question some time ago, and was surprised Bond’s patience had held out that long, it had still come at an unexpected time.

Bond was silent for a while, pondering. “Bad childhood?”

Q immediately understood what Bond was thinking and wanted to nip that idea in the bud. “No, perfectly ordinary. My whole life was boring, grey, dull, average, and utterly unbearable until MI6 gave me a chance.” He smiled ruefully. “Not everything needs to be traumatic to not want to be reminded of.”

Bond mulled this over. “Boredom sounds traumatic for someone like you.”

“Does it?” Q showed his surprise.

“Yes. Boredom and your genius mind, they don’t go together.”

Q was speechless for a moment. Bond, of all people, understood him better than anyone ever had. He eventually nodded. “You got it.” You got _me_.

“Q it is, then.”

And that was that. Q was certain Bond would never ask again.

* * * * *

With the latest location for the General being South Africa, Bond had been booked onto the 2100 flight with British Airlines. He’d arrive in the morning and had plenty of opportunity to get some sleep in the comfortable First Class seating.

By the time the plane touched down in Johannesburg, Q had delivered updated information on the General and Pavkoric to Bond’s tablet, formatted like a very boring project proposal, in case of prying eyes. According to the intel, Okwundo had booked into the Michelangelo Hotel, one of the most luxurious places in the city. Being an official delegate of an international conference on military advancements, he had installed himself in a suite.

Bond skimmed the information on the conference, and noted that he had been booked into the same hotel. _Not_ a suite, Q had added acidly. Bond caught himself amused at the line, and able to imagine exactly what Q looked and sounded like, as he had typed it.

By the time he arrived at the luxury hotel with its colourful and high class decor, he had memorised the information and destroyed the file. It took him only a short while to order a drink, check the hotel room for bugs, and then he set up the comms line to HQ.

“You could have sprung for a suite,” he started the conversation.

“Have you seen the exchange rate?” Q grumbled, “if I had, I wouldn’t have the budget for ammunition.”

“Bearing in mind how often you have threatened to kit me out with a water pistol, I wouldn’t have thought it to be a problem.”

“Water isn’t cheap these days either,” Q remarked testily, then returned to business. “The General arrived yesterday afternoon with two aides. Business trip, didn’t bring his wife or anyone else. The aides are staying in a twin room down the hall from his suite.”

“So far, so good. The aides won’t be a problem.” Not for someone like 007. “What is my immediate goal?”

“To get the information about Pavkoric’s clientele from the General.”

“Nothing more? Child’s play.” Bond’s sarcasm could have eroded steel.

“Perhaps, except for a small spanner in the works. The latest intel indicates that the attack on the Financial market is far sooner than originally believed.”

“Basically, I don’t have any time.” Bond summarised without inflexion.

“Basically, yes. I’m trying to find you an angle.”

“Anything other than just _make_ him give me the codes?”

Q had a good idea what Bond meant. “I doubt he will crack, at least not in the timeframe available to you.” Fingers typing swiftly, flicking through increasingly secret and hidden files, detailing the life and deeds of the General. Married, three children, not a spot of scandal outside of what was to be expected, unless…

“Anything yet?” Bond asked impatiently.

“Hang on, there might be something.” Delving deeper, Q came across money that had been paid to several men via agencies. Large sums, and all those men had something in common: they were Caucasian, very fit, and definitely _men_ and not boys. “I think I found a hook.” The moment Q said it, the implication became clear to him. He was actually about to suggest that Bond should whore himself out to get the information, in the name of Queen and Country.

“What’s his dirty secret?”

Q hesitated. This was not something he wanted to do. For many more reasons than only personal ones. It was one thing to send a double-O into a death trap, guns blazing, explosions ripping, and trusting them to come put alive thanks to their incredible skills – and it was entirely another to send one out to use their bodies.

Bond was getting restless at the other end of the line, and Q was forced to follow the only angle he had been able to find.

“What are you willing to do?” As much as he knew how redundant that question was, he had to ask it.

“Anything I have to.”

Q had expected the answer. He’d never forgotten how Bond had challenged him by stating he was a dangerous whore.

“It seems he likes blond, tall, Caucasian men a bit too much. He’s paid quite large sums to a dozen of them via several agencies over the course of the last ten years.”

Silence on the other end, then, “understood.”

“I can’t tell you what exactly he paid that money for,” Q blabbered, “I mean, I don’t know what he wants.”

“Shall I give you some pointers?” Bond’s voice had turned sharp. “Man in his position? Paying for sex with men?”

Q swallowed. He didn’t like those insinuations one little bit, but what could he do? Tell Bond not to pursue that angle?

He had stayed silent too long, because when Bond spoke again, his voice had softened. “We don’t have time for a different tactic, Q. I know what I’m doing. I’ll be fine, it’s just a job.”

‘My body is only a tool’ Q’s mind helpfully supplied, and that made him feel even worse. He had to physically pull himself together, to keep his voice devoid of anything except professionalism.

“Of course, 007. Any means necessary, I know. I trust you will contact HQ in advance to ensure preparations and precautions?”

“Why, are you going to buy a packet of condoms for me?”

“No,” Q shot back. He wanted to yell ‘no, you stupid idiot’, but reined himself in. “If you want to blackmail the General you will need evidence.”

“Information instead of money, I know.”

“Not just that.”

“Enlighten me.”

He couldn’t, could he? Telling Bond that having a feed on him would be for his safety would be an insult to the man who was deadlier with his bare hands than Okwundo could be with his entourage of bodyguards. “Nevermind.” Q tried to deflect.

“Rest assured that while I won’t guard my non-existent virtue, I know very well how to ensure my safety.”

“And you have such an excellent record of that,” Q sighed. The banter kept his mind away from what he was sending the agent into, and he gladly clung to it.

“I’m flattered by your concern, Quartermaster, but I was killing marks while you were still doing your A levels. I’ll be fine.”

“Of course.” Q was perfectly aware that the only person he was reassuring here was himself. “I’ll talk to you later, once I’ve created a watertight back story for you.”

“Just don’t make me a an artist down on his luck.”

“Hardly,” Q huffed, “former sportsman more likely.”

Bond snorted. “At least make it a proper sport, and give me a decent sob story.”

“A sob story?” Q’s indignation came all too well across the line. “You might be a professional liar in Her Majesty’s employ, but no one would buy a sob story from you, unless they are blinded by your charm.”

“So you _do_ find me charming?”

“Oh shut up, Bond, and do your job.”

“Always.” The line was shut off to the sounds of Bond’s chuckle.

* * * * *

About an hour later, Q came back online. “Right, you’re Robert Sterling, former swimmer and rugby player. Just a smidgen below international competition class. Expensive tastes, currently with cash flow problems due to a couple of awkwardly timed investments in the last few years.”

Q heard the sound of waster splashing gently as Bond moved. In the bath or Jacuzzi, then. “Robert Sterling? You must be kidding me. Did you come up with that name or one of your minions?”

“It’s one you’ve used before, thus one thing less to be surprised about. Besides, you’d be amazed how many Robert Sterlings are out there, and how few have photos attached to their documents.”

The sound of water again, this time a little louder as Bond reached for glass, taking a mouthful of his drink. “What time is Robert supposed to make contact with his client?”

“2115 at the bar. Wear a blue tie.” The words seemed forced.

Bond hummed in agreement. “Everything alright, Q?”

Q made a noncommittal sound. “Just wished I had more data, that’s all.”

“I’ve operated successfully on far less. I assume the General’s room has been rigged up?”

“Done,” Q replied, projecting insult, “as has the bar.”

Bond hummed again. “Who will be monitoring the feed?”

“Me.”

“No one else?”

“No.” Q’s voice had no inflection at all.

Bond was quiet for a moment. “Thank you.” The sound of water splashing as Bond stood up. “See you at the bar.”

* * * * *

Bond arrived fifteen minutes early, looking like any other businessman meeting a client, and sat at the bar, ordering a glass of white wine.

He looked breathtaking, Q decided, even through the grainy video feed from the security cameras. Immaculate in his tailored suit with the blue tie matching the subtle shift of colours of the fine fabric, as well as his eyes. His face was shaved smoothly, with not a short blond hair on his head out of place.

The General arrived ten minutes later than planned, undoubtedly to make a point. One that Bond ignored, of course, playing his role perfectly. Negotiations were polite and to the point, as though both parties had done this many times before.

Q watched how the two men got up from the bar – Bond not having touched his wine beyond a couple of sips – and walked to the elevator. As casually in conversation as any acquaintances could be. No one would ever suspect the elegant, mature, blond man to be anything but a successful business broker.

By the time they emerged on the General’s level, Q was cursing at the audio feed from the bugged room. He couldn’t get the damned thing to work, no matter what tricks he applied.

Bond stepped back as the General opened the door to his suite and switched on the ‘Do Not Disturb’ light once 007 had walked inside.

A quick flurry of keys and the video feed switched to the room. Q couldn’t get the audio, but video was far more important anyway.

Soon after, 007 was standing in front of Okwundo, starting to undress the man. It felt like déjà vu to Q, the way Bond was slipping the suit jacket of the General’s shoulders, then worked with deft hands on the tie, before undoing the shirt buttons.

He knew what was coming next. Could predict each and every of Bond’s actions; his tactics of seduction, the way he would touch and move.

Just like he did with Q.

Once Bond had fully undressed the mark, he slid to his knees, in one fluid motion.

Just like he’d done for Q.

Q could feel his fingers tightening as his eyes followed Bond’s every movement, from where he placed his hands on Okwundo’s hips, to the nuzzle of his lips on the hardening cock. Exactly as Bond had done for Q at Chequers Court and many times after.

He watched the General stare down at the sight of the blond man sucking his cock in earnest, before pulling hard at the short hair, making Bond get up. Q couldn’t hear what was being said, but the agent immediately began to undress, while Okwundo got onto the bed, reached for lube and condom in the bedside cabinet, and got himself ready.

Q took a few moments to shoo Mr Turing away, who was winding around his legs. Refocusing on Bond, he saw that he had settled himself onto the bed, on hands and knees, and at the perfect angle for three of the cameras so that there would be no doubt that he was a man.

Unsurprisingly, Bond wasn’t hard, but to play his role convincingly, he was stroking himself while waiting. When he lifted his head slightly, Q was taken aback to see him look straight at the camera. There was absolutely no expression on his face, none. Not that Okwundo could see that. To him, the body before him, which was willingly opening up and rocking back, was taking his cock eagerly.

Bond’s lips were slightly parted, and Q’s mind supplied the low sounds he would be making for the General’s benefit, knowing them all too well.

Yet there was nothing in Bond’s eyes; their blue gaze penetrating and cold, and his facial expression frighteningly blank.

It was a performance.

Perfection. It had always been too perfect.

Had Bond ever looked like that when it had been Q behind him?

It was a tried and tested technique and the moment Q realised that, he decided he didn’t want to play a role in Bond’s well-rehearsed play.

* * * * *

Q was feeling nauseous by the time the General had finished and Bond had smoothly got up from the bed. None of his movements gave an indication to what had just happened, as he went to the side table and poured two glasses of chilled champagne.

He said something to the man on the bed who nodded. When Bond turned his back again, Q noticed a faint movement in the right elbow, figuring that the agent was pouring something else into one of the glasses.

True to his hunch, the General soon fell unconscious once he’d drunk his champagne. Q watched Bond rummage in his own jacket pocket, then stepped into the bathroom, before the comms line came to life.

“Do you have usable material?” Bond asked.

“Of course, 007.” Q wasn’t able to bring himself to call the reflection of the man in the mirror by his name. Not with those piercing cold eyes and hardened facial expression. “I’m in the process of putting the most incriminating images and clips together and will send them to the General’s phone.”

“Mine as well.” Bond’s voice was sharp, nothing of ‘Robert Sterling’ left. “I need to know what I’m threatening him with.”

“Understood.” Q swallowed, hoping to hell and back Bond wouldn’t have heard his discomfort.

“Good. Okwundo will be out for a couple of hours at least. I’ll check back in when I have finished the mission.”

With that Bond cut the line and removed the ear piece. With one last unflinching look into the mirror - and directly at Q - he stepped into the shower, where he stayed for an uncharacteristically long time.

When he finally emerged, he checked his phone and the material Q had sent, his face expressionless on the video feed. He proceeded to sit down on a chair next to the bed. Immaculately dressed, leaning back into a deceptively relaxed position, and the Walther across his lap, he looked as dangerous as his previous persona had been charming.

* * * * *

Coercing the General into releasing the information on his associate’s clients was easy after that. A few images and a short clip of Okwundo fucking Bond, together with an invitation to discuss the conditions of keeping the material from being leaked to every government official plus newspaper in Nigeria - and his entire family - made him fall in line quickly.

‘Robert Sterling’ had changed into the cold and merciless Bond, who was nothing like the man the General thought he’d bought for a few hours. The real man was dangerous, and couldn’t be moved unless he received what he had come for.

When faced with the prospect of losing his entire life and the shame that would be brought upon his family, Okwundo relented quickly.

Bond had successfully finished another mission, and if the weapon of choice had been his body, he didn’t seem to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All tags, ratings, characters and notes refer to the entirety of this fictional work, not to individual chapters.


	11. Holding attack

Bond promptly returned to Britain with the encrypted information, to deliver the records on Pavkoric’s clients to MI6. Due to the urgent nature of the mission and its data retrieval, he returned straight to HQ to hand in file to Q-branch. Electronic transfer hadn’t been deemed secure enough.

He was looking for Q once he stepped into the basement.

Q was - unusually - in his glass walled office, typing away and staring at his bank of screens.

“I have your information, Quartermaster.” Bond gave a smile as he entered the office, holding out the encrypted data like an offering.

Q looked up, as though startled. “Thank you,” he said, but was almost hesitant when he took the USB key from Bond’s hand and inserted it into a stand-alone laptop on his desk - one which wasn’t connected to the MI6 network or even the internet. He had learned his lesson.

Bond sidled up to stand beside him, too close as was his custom.

The names and contact details, as well as the requests came up on a spread sheet. Q gave a low whistle. “He’s certainly diversified.”

“Any leads yet where he is right now?” Bond let his fingers rest on Q’s wrist.

Q’s hand twitched, but he allowed Bond’s fingers to remain. Using his other hand to click through the spread sheet and the other data on the key. “Most likely Albania, looks like his base. He’s got three meetings scheduled next week.”

Bond nodded. “Albania it is, then. I’ll confirm with M.” Letting his thumb stroke the underside of Q’s wrist. “Looks like I have tonight off.”

Q jerked back from the touch. “I’m going to need time with this, to get all the data out.”

Bond stared down at where Q’s hand had been, then back up. “Are you alright?”

“Course I am,” it sounded forced even to Q.

“You are trying to lie to someone who lies professionally,” Bond commented, concern in his voice. “It’s obvious that you are not alright. Has anything happened while I was gone?”

Q could have howled with sardonic laughter. “You could say that, yes.”

“Well, what was it?”

“What happened when I was gone,” Q echoed Bond’s words, then shook his head. “Who are you, really?

“Pardon?” Bond looked confused, “what do you mean, what am I?”

“I mean, is there anything other than 007?”

“What the hell are you getting at?” Confusion was rapidly changing into anger. “Is this related to what I had to do to get the data?”

“It took that for me to see it.”

“To see _what_?” Bond’s anger was well on its way.

“To see that _it_ ,” the word held a wealth of meaning, and yet none, “is just part of the routine for you, no different from any of your missions. You never let go, you’re always playing your role. It’s a skilled performance for you.”

“ _It_ , as in: sex? Are you really comparing what I did with the General, to having sex with you?” Bond’s anger was incredulous.

“How could I not?” Q shot back.

“What about ‘the one thing has nothing to do with the other’? I used my body as a tool on that mission, you know that’s what I have to do.”

“And which is exactly what you do to me,” Q hissed, “every single bloody move, exactly the same as you did at Chequers Court and many times after, like a script. Which, as I said earlier, makes me wonder who you really are.”

“Did you read too many women’s mags?” Bond sneered. A nasty expression on his face, covering up any hurt he might be feeling. “There is no ‘secret little Jamie’ hidden inside. I am James Bond. I am Special Agent 007. I am no one other than who you know. What else do you want from me?”

“I want,” Q stopped, because what did he want? Knowing that he wasn’t just another notch on the bedpost, a convenient way to scratch an itch? “I don’t want to be just another name in your long list of conquests.”

Bond bared his teeth in a snarl. “Tell me, Q, could it not rather be the case that you don’t want to have sex with a whore?”

Q jerked back, as if slapped.

“I never insinuated, not even for a moment, that this is what you are. It has always been _you_ who called yourself that, twice now. I understand that it’s part of your job, don’t make any more out of it, and don’t you dare put words into my mouth!”

“Then why is it that right after you watched me getting fucked by a mark you tell me to sod off?”

“It is because I watched _you_. I don’t give a damn that you were with a mark, but seeing you? You did exactly the same things that you do with me in exactly the same way. It was like a well-rehearsed performance. Bloody perfect!”

“How dare you,” Bond roared.

“I’m not another one of your marks…and I’m not,” Q spat out the word, “ _practice_.”

Q had expected outrage, attack even, but instead Bond froze. He stilled completely, not a muscle twitched. His jaws set, and his pale blue eyes turned hard.

“Is this what you think you are?” His voice was deceptively calm and quiet.

“What else?” Q deflated, “I suppose it should have been obvious: you needed to practice with someone before going out.”

Bond’s hands vibrated with an overwhelming amount of tension, but his voice remained as controlled as his body remained rigid. “Do you really believe I still needed practice?”

“The same way you go out to the shooting range, and there I was...convenient.”

Bond’s nostrils flared with suppressed emotions. Anger or hurt, fury or rage, Q didn’t know.

“Don’t sell yourself short, Quartermaster,” was all Bond said in the end, before he turned stiffly and stalked out of the office.

Q leaned back in his chair, exhausted, and almost didn’t notice when Mr Turing appeared from nowhere and jumped up on his lap.

* * * * *

Bond left the building without checking in with anyone, and vanished to his flat, which he’d never got around to calling ‘home’. It was enough for him to offer a safe place when he needed to get spectacularly drunk, and he proceeded to drink himself into an absolute stupor over the next twelve hours.

He managed to get up for the scheduled briefing in M’s office, as he’d always done: he functioned, no matter what. Looking and feeling like shit, but still in an immaculate suit, he arrived at MI6 tight-lipped, hung-over and as cold as ice.

Q was there too, just as tight-lipped, but with deep shadows under his eyes and rumpled clothes that indicated he’d been in the lab all night.

Bond didn’t look at him, kept his eyes on Mallory, as they discussed the options and parameters for the agent’s mission that very same day.

“Q went through the data, and amongst the information needed to prevent the attack on the Financial market, we can be relatively certain that Pavkoric is currently in Albania,” M explained.

Bond nodded. “Understood, Sir. I suggest I leave today.”

“I’m impressed with your eagerness to do your duty, but what’s the urgency, 007?” It was obvious M believed that Bond had an ulterior motif.

“Acclimatisation and intel. I was there during the Balkan war, I blew up the facility myself. I was an eye witness to what Pavkoric was capable of. In my opinion, the man is a high functioning psychopath. I need time to assure the best possible outcome.”

M nodded, “very well then.” He turned to Q. “How soon can Q-branch have the equipment ready?”

“Ready now, Sir.” Q didn’t meet Bond’s eyes.

Bond didn’t look at Q, either, as he addressed M once more. “If you don’t mind, Sir, I’d like to get kitted out now and spend the time before the flight in the shooting range.”

Mallory pointedly looked from one to the other, but then nodded. “Q, that is all. 007, a word.”

Q stood up too quickly, ready to bolt. “007 can pick up his kit in Q-branch.” He was out of the door with relief.

* * * * *

Miss Moneypenny cornered Bond the moment he left M’s office.

“What did you do?” She was glaring daggers at him.

“Excuse me?” He really didn’t want to have to deal with her right now.

“Q. What did you do to him?”

“What?” His anger flared hot and bright. “What makes you think that I did anything to Q? Do you still believe the Quartermaster to be a hapless kid that couldn’t possibly do something to _me_?”

She looked taken aback, which gave him a minor stab of satisfaction.

“You didn’t dump him?”

“First off, there is no one to dump if there is no relationship. Secondly, no.”

She huffed. “You tell yourself the first bit about no relationship.”

“Eve,” he warned, “there wasn’t.”

Her expression told him what she thought of his denial, but she was clever enough not to pursue this line. “So, he dumped you.”

He growled at her choice of words, but she ignored him. She was good at that.

“Did he get tired of being used as a post-mission de-stress shag?”

“Use him? What do you think I am?”

“Someone who uses sex for all sorts of things, such as relaxation, anger management, to retrieve information, or to mellow marks. You _use_ sex, James. It’s just one more weapon in your arsenal.”

“Eve, if you don’t shut up now, I will punch you.”

“Have I hit a sore spot?”

“You have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Really? Don’t be so sure of that.” She was at her most merciless. “I know you better than you think.”

“I didn’t ask you for your unwanted opinion, so shut up.”

“Not a chance. Not before you heard what I have to say. For months now you have been with Q after each mission, before reporting in. Every time, without fail. Are you really that blind that you don’t know what you have been doing? And what, exactly, do you imagine your behaviour signalled to our Quartermaster?”

“Nothing. It signalled nothing, and I did nothing. It was just a shag, you said so yourself.”

“Did Q say the same?”

“Yes.”

“You are usually an excellent liar, James, but right now you aren’t.”

“Leave it alone, Eve. This is none of your business.” He had become very quiet, and very still. Every line in Bond’s body spoke of tension, and she realised that right now she was treading a seriously dangerous line. This was 007, the man with the license to kill and no compunction not to use it.

“It’s the business of a friend.” She daringly stated.

Bond shook his head. “I don’t do friends. I was right, they are only a liability.” With that he turned abruptly and left the office.

He was glad M had decided to send him onto the next mission that very same day. He’d bring Pavkoric back, and that would be that.

* * * * *

“Two of the cameras around the next bend have been knocked out,” Q’s voice over the feed was level and calm, “we’re just getting satellite feed now, but assume there are hostiles around the next corner.”

“This mission has been a comedy of errors so far,” Bond hissed, flattened into the entrance of a dilapidated building.

“Movement to your left, two, armed,” Q interrupted.

“Understood.” Q heard shots over the comms, then Bond breathing hard as he sprinted, before shots were fired once more. Eventually, Bond’s voice again. “Eliminated. They shouldn’t have been there in the first place. Where the hell is Pavkoric? I’ve wasted three days so far, hunting down false leads.”

“Two cars coming up the road from the east,” Q ignored Bond’s question.

“Any intel on who is inside them?” Bond snapped, “wouldn’t want to shoot a granny.”

“Passing a camera now, got a lock on. Pavkoric in the second, with driver and armed guard. First car, Pavli Hoxha, local mafia boss.”

Bond groaned. Of course, once more against the odds. “I’m following.” He turned on his heel to sprint towards the vehicle he’d left not far away. Throwing himself behind the steering wheel, he scanned the area before him, as he started the car. “I need directions.”

“Turn around, there’s a road leading up behind the buildings. You’ll have cover and a clear view of the cars approaching. They seem to be making their way towards you.”

“Understood.” Bond followed the directions, and true to Q’s words, the cars were approaching, making it possible for him to slide in behind them, tailing them at a safe distance.

The vehicles came to a stop at the foot of a gutted high-rise from the last days of the Soviet rule.

Bond parked his vehicle far enough away to avoid being spotted, then entered the shelled building carefully, weapon drawn, to stay under cover.  

The six men - Pavkoric, Hoxha, two bodyguards, and two drivers - had disembarked from the cars and stood in what had been the car park, out in the open.

Bond knew he had to act fast, or he’d lose the element of surprise. Taking a steadying breath, he murmured, “I’m going to isolate the target.”

The next moment, Q heard shots, one rapidly following the other. Unmistakably Bond’s weapon. Five times, five hits, from the lack of response fire. If anything, 007 was back to being the excellent marksman he’d been before he’d been shot in Istanbul.

Then another shot, from a different weapon, and Bond let out a grunt.

Q sat up, “007?”

“Nothing. Flesh wound, but Pavkoric is getting away.”

Q heard nothing else for a moment, except for movement, then Bond shouting: “you have two options, come with me or get killed.”

The man yelled something back in Russian, too distorted for Q to understand.

Another gunshot, hitting concrete, followed by the finality of a second.

Silence.

Finally Bond’s voice. “Mission unsuccessful. Target dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All tags, ratings, characters and notes refer to the entirety of this fictional work, not to individual chapters.


	12. Economy of force

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very dark chapter. Please heed the warning and proceed with caution.

In the weeks after the bungled Pavkoric mission, Q was able to pick up an obscure trail that grew ever more intriguing, the longer he followed it. Data dumps in a few places, clients that had previously been identified and whose actions set up red flags. Q was extremely careful as he followed the trajectory, the incident with Siva still fresh in his mind. Only after his technicians and he himself had checked and double checked all of the sources - and then triple checked them again, he was certain that indeed, they had a legitimate trail to an unknown accomplice of the ex-Major, and all flags led to Colombia.

Bond had been briefed thoroughly, and even though their relations were still as frosty as they had been right after the bust-up, they were both sufficiently professional to work without hitch with each other.

But when Bond had left after being kitted out for the mission, he’d lingered in the doorway and cast a long look at Q, which the Quartermaster hadn’t been able to decipher. When he’d broken eye contact, Bond had left.

* * * * *

Bond was at the airport, waiting for his flight. He had finally allowed himself to put two and two together over the last few days, and he’d come to a conclusion. It had been several weeks since his anger – and hurt – had flared brightly, and it was time to face his demons. Or rather, demon. Singular.

He used his private mobile to dial Q’s equally private number. The call went straight to voice mail.

“I need to talk to you when I return. I’ve figured something out.”

He’d never been one for useless flourishes. He’d talk to Q when he was back from the mission, plenty of time then.

* * * * *

The plane had landed at Colombia’s Alfonso Bonilla Aragón International Airport in Palmira, its passengers queuing up to pass through immigration. Bond had his jacket slung over his shoulder, the shirt collar opened and the tie loosened, as well as the sleeves turned up. He was playing the part of a businessman, looking to offer lucrative contracts to export minerals.

He was sauntering towards the end of the queue, when a heavily accented female voice murmured into his ear, “I am glad you could make it, Mr Bond.”

Before he could turn his head or react in any way, a needle was slammed into his neck, and the next moment everything went black.

* * * * *

By the time Q remembered to check the voice mail on his private phone, it was several hours later. He’d gone through a long and arduous shift, which had included guiding 005 through New York’s tunnel system, and was half asleep on his feet when he finally arrived home.

He noticed the flashing light, and listened to the message.

Bond.

James Bond wanting to talk.

And wasn’t that a sucker punch. Q rubbed his hand over his face and tired eyes. He’d been feeling crap about what he’d done and said, but he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge the ever growing realisation that in fact, he’d behaved like a Grade A twat.

He’d been an arse. Plain and simple. He hadn’t given Bond a chance. He’d analysed the situation and made up his mind, coming to conclusion that to him had been the only feasible one. But he’d forgotten to factor in components of a far more complex context, hadn’t he? And he had refused to consider his own erratic emotions.

Without another thought, he hit return call. It barely rang once, before the automated message was played that the number was not available right now and to call later.

Q frowned. It wasn’t like Bond not to have his voice mail active.

He tried again, twice more, but always the same result. Eventually, he decided he’d call the following day. If Bond had his phone switched off completely, then he had a good reason. He was a pain, but he was an excellent agent.

* * * * *

Bond woke to intensive nausea, disorientation and a sharp pain in the back of his shoulder and in his left forearm. He also realised, once he’d managed to focus enough despite the roiling of his stomach, that he was shackled to something, a table or board, and completely naked. He forced his eyes open, but before he could assess his body’s damage, the nausea overtook. He desperately tried to turn his head to the side as he helplessly vomited, but was hindered by an unyielding strap that fixed his neck to what he was lying on. Disgusted, but unable to keep from soiling himself.

He was still retching, when the same female voice spoke, which he’d heard at the airport. “I’m afraid that’s one of the side effects of the anaesthetic.”

Bond tried to catch a glimpse of her, but she stood at an angle that made it impossible. What he saw instead was a completely non-descript room with bare concrete walls, mould growing from the damp ground, and no window as far as he could see, but harsh, artificial light. He had no idea where he was, nor how long he had been out, and neither why he was there.

“What do you want from me,” he forced out, fighting down further sickness.

“I want to make you suffer, Mr Bond. I want to watch you in agony for as long as I can draw it out, and believe me, that is a very long time.”

“Who are you.”

She stepped into the line of his vision. “My father was Major Pavkoric.” She paused until she seemed satisfied he had understood exactly what that meant. “I am a doctor, Mr Bond. I know what to do to you, how and where, for maximum effect and duration.”

“Do your worst,” he snarled.

“Oh, I will. Don’t you worry about that. You see, I learned a lot from my father, but I very much surpassed him in his art. I know the human body, and I know how to keep you alive.” She smiled at him. The expression looked deranged on her face, because it never reached her cold eyes. “And I also know how to truly make you suffer.”

“You are insane,” he spat out.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. I’ve spent my life dedicated to the art of medicine. Would you like to know who my patients are? The very best and bravest of the Norte del Valle Cartel.” She smiled once more, then pulled something towards her, which looked like a small table. She busied herself with arranging the many surgical instruments on top of it, before she spoke again. “Of course, my patients are also the enemies of the cartel.” She studied him with a venomous look, but her voice never changed from its soft tones. “I’ve been making a very good living from those patients of mine, and they have been very forthcoming in ensuring you would be mine. It’s very interesting how much you are hated, Mr Bond. I’ve had the very impressive resources of the cartel at my disposal.”

He didn’t reply, for there was nothing to say. He was trapped, immobilised, without an angle to pursue. He had nothing that his captor wanted, except for his pain. He had no doubt she would receive it in abundance.

“By the way,” she patted his head like one would pet a dog, “no one will find you. Your trackers have been removed.”

Bond tensed. The pain in his shoulder, his forearm. It made sense now, but there was no pain in his chest, and he couldn’t see an open wound. Q had been right, the prototype was undetectable. What good would it do him?

“You look like a man who is beginning to grasp his situation.” She crossed the room to pick up a hose. From a slight distance, her filial resemblance to Sreten Pavkoric was obvious.

“What a dirty man you are, Mr Bond, having soiled yourself.”

The sudden spray of cold water from the hose hit him like a thousand shards of ice. He jerked involuntarily, trying to get away from it, but his ankles had been shackled to the hard surface he was lying on. His wrists, too, and his neck. He found himself completely immobilised.

“Positively medieval,” he forced out when the water stopped.

“You are quite right.” With that same frighteningly mad smile, she picked up a pair of pliers from her collection of tools. “Now open up wide, Mr Bond, we’ll be playing dentist with your cyanide tooth. We wouldn’t want you to commit suicide, would we?”

* * * * *

Six hours later, Q was back in HQ. He’d tried Bond’s phone again, but the same message had played. The niggling worry he felt was enough to catapult him out of bed and back to MI6 in a hurry. His first action was to pull up the tracker software, looking for 007.

Nothing.

No matter which feeds he tapped into, which algorithms he ran, or which codes he tweaked, there was no signal, not even a faint echo. To all intents and purposes, the tracker didn’t exist.

He spent an hour and every trick he knew, hacked into Palmira airport security cameras, but all he found was Bond’s plane landing and then nothing. Every camera feed was either corrupted, dysfunctional, or otherwise inaccessible.

Q immediately requested an emergency appointment with M, and fifteen minutes later Miss Moneypenny had cleared Mallory’s schedule long enough for them to talk.

“Bond has vanished.”

“It’s not the first time,” M said dismissively.

“No, Sir, he really has vanished. There is no tracker signal, none whatsoever.”

“He has done that, too.”

“Not since I upgraded the software. He can’t fall completely off the grid as long as the tracker is inside his body.”

M raised his brows. “I assume the upgrade was not sanctioned by me, since I was not aware of it?”

“Correct, and I will dutifully accept any and all punishment for that, as long as you believe me that something has gone seriously wrong.”

“So, what you are telling me is that you believe 007 deliberately silenced the tracker?”

“It cannot be silenced,” Q insisted.

“Removed, then.”

“Sir, it doesn’t make sense that it was Bond himself who removed it.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Mallory pondered this for a moment. “Any current personal threats to 007 that you are aware of?”

“No, Sir,” Q sighed, “but it is not a coincidence that every camera feed from Palmira airport is unavailable. We lost Bond the moment he arrived in Colombia.”

“How long ago?”

“Just over ten hours, Sir.”

M nodded. “Go with your hunch, then, and send out a blanket search for 007. All of MI6’s resources are at your disposal.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Q said, relieved for his concern to be taken seriously. He was going to get started straight away. There was nothing else he had to focus on right now, except for assisting the other double-Os when necessary. As always, he’d had his schedule cleared for Bond’s mission, and now he would fill it with finding the agent.

He was collared by Moneypenny the moment he exited M’s office.

“What makes you think he didn’t just pull another one of his tricks and found a way to slip beneath your radar?” She asked, making him suspect she had somehow listened in.

Q shook his head. “He phoned me before he left.”

“Did he?” With her perfectly groomed eyebrows arched, she studied him.

“He left a message.”

“And that particular message lets you believe that he had the intention to return.”

Q nodded, feeling miserable to the core.

Eve placed her hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Bond will be fine, darling. Resurrecting is what he does, you know that.”

Her smile and her understanding made him feel better. After a moment of leaning into her touch, Q straightened up. He pushed his glasses back up his nose, girded his metaphorical loins, and cleared his throat. The consummate professional once more.

“Thank you, Miss Moneypenny, I’ll be in my office.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek, which made her chuckle as he left.

* * * * *

“Do you see this, Mr Bond?” She was holding an array of surgical instruments in her gloved hands. “The tools of my trade. You probably only know scalpels, but trust me, operating knives and especially bone levers are so much more useful.”

He glanced at the sharp steel tools, far more sinister looking than a less meticulously engineered weapon could be. He realised that this time he would need every bit of mental resistance he’d ever built up.

“Pretty.” Showing bravado he did not feel, but he wouldn’t back down. Not yet. No, never. “Is that all?”

She put the instruments down except for one of the longer operating knives. “I can assure you, Mr Bond, that no matter how much you try to antagonise me, your death won’t come any earlier than the moment I decide that you have suffered enough.” She leaned close to him, her face a mere couple of inches from his. “And that would be never, if I had any say in it.”

“Shame that everything is finite, isn’t it?”

She smiled that truly frightening smile of hers. “It is indeed. Like my father’s life.” Straightening back up, she took his right hand into hers, turned it upside down, and flattened his fingers down onto the hard surface of the board. “When you killed him, you did it with this hand, isn’t that correct? You’re right handed, Mr Bond, I’ve researched you. How did it feel to pull the trigger with…this…hand…!”

She rammed the knife into his palm, all the way through, until it got stuck in the material below.

Bond didn’t scream, but he couldn’t stop the pained groan from escaping.

“How did it feel when you lifted your arm to kill my father?” Stroking the inside of his forearm, she studied his face, before another surgical knife was slammed between the bones and flesh, skilfully missing major blood vessel. “Was the gun heavy?” With an insane expression on her face, she did the same to his biceps, effectively nailing his arm to the board.

Bond’s breath came in short, erratic gasps, while the pain shot through his arm like fire and brimstone.

She picked up another instrument, different to the ones before. Long, thin but strong, and honed to deadly sharpness. “Tell me, Mr Bond,” her voice had dropped, “how did the recoil feel when you pulled the trigger?”

This time, when she forced the bone lever through flesh and cartilage, deeply into his shoulder joint, he screamed.

* * * * *

Having run out of options, Q followed all of the flags, traces and trails in reverse order. It took him several days of nearly uninterrupted and increasingly frantic work, to find what he was looking for: the originator of it all.

He had been tricked; deceived with his very own cleverness.

All of the breadcrumbs that had been laid were fake, originating with one Doctor Branka Pavkoric. None other than the ex-Major’s daughter.

He felt sick when the realisation hit him.

He’d sent Bond straight into a trap.

* * * * *

She came back in intervals that Bond couldn’t keep track of. He didn’t know if it was night or day, nor how much time had passed, because all that existed was absolute darkness and glaring brightness, with only pain in between.

She kept talking to him, mocking him. Asking him about his life and thoughts without ever expecting a reply – and never getting one.

What she did get were his screams of pain, as she butchered his body. She had taken a shine to his right shoulder, claiming it was the one part of him that had been instrumental in her father’s death. Using scalpels and operating knives, an array of bone levers, she turned the whole of his shoulder into a bloodied, gaping mess.

He lost his voice after hours of screaming, and still she continued, that smile never ceasing. She turned her attention to the left shoulder, jamming steel beneath the clavicle, but she soon lost interest. She always came back to the arm that had fired the gun.

At some stage, he lost all control of his right hand and fingers, and when he couldn’t feel his entire arm, except for the all-encompassing pain that raged across ravaged nerves, he knew.

There was no way back.

* * * * *

“It has been several days now, Q.” Mallory commented on the latest report. “Do you have any evidence to support your theory that Branka Pavkoric did not just kill 007?”

He’d accepted Q’s meticulous research, and it had become fact that it was Major Sreten Pavkoric’s daughter who had lured Bond into a trap.

“Yes, Sir.” Q’s fingers kept tapping erratically onto his thigh. High on caffeine and exhaustion.

“Well, what is it, then?”

“007 can’t be dead.”

“You know that with such certainty exactly how?”

“I developed a prototype chip for him a few months ago.”

“And you forgot to inform me?”

“I…” Q swallowed. “I’m sorry, Sir. 007 had expressed a fear of his corpse not being found and I, well…” he trailed off helplessly. There wasn’t much else to say once he’d realised how often he had gone against protocol for James Bond.

M’s facial expression had turned thunderous, but to Q’s surprised, the only thing he said was, “I give you another week. Now get out of my office.”

An order Q gladly complied with.

* * * * *

“You know, Mr Bond,” she said conversationally while toying with the hose. “I’ve always thought the American way of waterboarding was so very pathetic. It’s like a game for children, is it not?”

He’d excepted her to hose him down once more, as she did when he’d been forced to soil himself. He hadn’t expected her words to cause any more fear to flare. Fear that came from experience; fear that he squashed down. He’d been there before, and had survived the ordeal, but then he’d been meant to survive the torture to be exchanged for captives. Unlike this time.

She clearly didn’t expect a reply, and he didn’t give her one.

“I’ve long been working on the belief that the old ways are the best. Take the method of water cure, for example. It can be traced back to the Thirty Years’ War and beyond.” She stood at his head now, a thin cloth in her hand, the hose in the other. “You do know your history, don’t you?”

No. No, no, no. He did know his history.

He realised when she forced his jaw apart and fixed it wide open with a clamp.

He knew when she placed the thin cloth over his face.

He understood when the ice cold water shot into his mouth and nose and down his throat. Unable to expel it against the cloth, it poured into his stomach and filled his lungs. Drowning. Worse than it had ever been before. Instinctive panic.

His body trashed and twisted in the shackles, tearing at open wounds, pulling at steel still embedded in his body. Not getting away, not stopping the pain in his lungs and guts.

Terror.

* * * * *

The week of grace had passed, without any further clue to Bond’s whereabouts. Q was at the end of his wits, and utterly exhausted. Failure and guilt were ripping him apart, no matter how hard he had pushed himself.

“Q, I need a word.”

M was on one of his rare visits to the basement bunkers.

“Of course.” Q had been dreading ‘the word.’

“It has been two weeks since 007’s disappearance. I want you to stop using up precious MI6 resources for the search.”

“And 007 isn’t precious?” Q snapped, immediately regretting his reaction.

“You are too emotionally invested in this,” M countered calmly. “Don’t think I’m not aware of what has been going on.”

“Excuse me, Sir?”

“Do I have to spell it out?”

“Yes, you do, because I am not sure what you are implying.”

M didn’t miss a beat. “You and Bond, this has been going on for months, hasn’t it? Do you really believe I did not find out when and why Bond’s tracker signal was dampened every time he returned from a mission?”

Q clenched his teeth to keep from shouting something at Mallory he would clearly regret. “I’m afraid you do have it all wrong. I am not, and have never been, emotionally involved with 007.” _Liar, Liar, Pants on fire_ , a tiny voice in his mind supplied.

The look M gave him said clearly that he didn’t believe a word. “Whatever the truth of that matter is, you have been running yourself ragged and have not been able to find the slightest trace of Bond. I cannot allow this to continue. MI6 needs its Quartermaster in top form and available for its current operations, not out on a wild goose chase.”

“But, Sir...”

“No. My order is final. You will cease your fruitless search for signs of 007, and you will devote your energy to issues of high importance. Otherwise I will have to look for a replacement for you. A Quartermaster who is unable to function due to distraction and exhaustion is useless to me and the whole of the Secret Service.”

There was nothing Q could say to that, feeling crushed to the core.

“Do you understand me?” Mallory demanded.

“Yes, Sir.”

If he had to give up on his desperate search then he’d ultimately failed Bond.

M had taken a couple of steps towards the office door, when he turned back. “Quartermaster?” Waiting to have Q’s attention.

“Yes, Sir?”

“If you are running some search programmes on a few redundant machines or whatever it is you feel is a good use of your spare time and unneeded resources, then I would not see that as defying my order.” With that he left.

Q stared dumbfounded after Mallory, unable to process fully what the director had just implied.

* * * * *

Pain. Pain pain pain pain pain. Nothing else left in his mind.

Pain.

Darkness and throbbing all-over pain, flaring from his shoulder all across; bleeding from his guts and his lungs into every cell.

Bright lights and sharp all-consuming pain and terror. Cold. Hot. Drowning. Blades. Jagged edges of consciousness clinging to a mantra of stop-stop-stop please death-death-death.

Death.

The end of it all or the chance to be found. If she hated him that much. If she was a medical doctor. If she brought him back because he’d cheated her by dying.

Dead or alive, once the chip activated.

The end of pain either way.

Letting go. Not much left of him to let go of, except for the ever present pain to stop.

* * * * *

The staccato of stilettos announced Miss Moneypenny marching into the basement with purpose. She came to an abrupt stop in front of Q’s desk. Hands on her hips, she looked sternly down onto the mess that was MI6’s Quartermaster.

“You, will go home now. You will eat and then you will sleep, and you will do so for at least twelve hours. This order does not only come from the very top, but also from me, and I am ready and willing to enforce it, because of you don’t follow that order you will kill yourself. What good will you then be to anyone?” ‘Especially Bond’, she did not have to say out loud.

“I can’t!” Q slumped onto his desk, startling Mr Turing, who scrambled away with a snarl.

“Why not? Surely you can set up some algorithms or recognition patterns that can run while you get some sleep?”

“It doesn’t work like that.” Q took his glasses off, and rubbed is burning eyes. “Bond isn’t anywhere out there. I am sure I would have him if that were the case.”

“So you are convinced he has been captured.”

Q nodded. “That’s the only logical explanation.” He dropped his voice to a murmur, “and it’s all my fault.”

“That’s nonsense!” Moneypenny was quick to reply.

“Is it? What if he was distracted because of, I don’t know, still being angry with me?”

“My dearest Q, as much of an influence you undoubtedly had, and as much as James Bond is many things, he is never unprofessional when it counts. This cannot possibly be your fault. Bond is not an emo kid.” She squeezed his shoulder reassuringly.

“What about all those breadcrumbs? The trail we followed before 007 was sent out, and the crumbs I have been picking up since then? I should have known! This is exactly what I did to catch Silva. Why didn’t I see it? I thought I was so careful, checking everything several times, and still she duped me. I’m supposed to be the genius here.”

“You are, darling, but you are not an all-seeing deity.”

“I should be. I am MI6’s Quartermaster.”

“You are also human, and as a human, you are not infallible.”

Q deflated. “But I should be,” he murmured.

“You are going to find him, one way or another. I have absolute faith in you.” She leaned down and pressed a kiss onto his cheek. “Now you will be a good boffin and come with me, or I will have to extract you forcefully from your desk.”

Faced with that threat, Q complied.

* * * * *

Light flared. From absolute darkness to too bright. He hadn’t heard her coming, couldn’t any longer. Couldn’t hear her above the roaring of his own blood in his ears, the endless struggle to pull air into his burning lungs, and the pain that defined his existence.

He opened his eyes, watching her. His last act of defiance, everything else in his body had given up on him.

She wasn’t talking to him this time, wasn’t even smiling her terrifying, cruel smile. Every action cold and calculated, as she forced his jaw open again, and covered his face.

The deluge of water hit the cloth.

Panic. Pain. Death. Drowning. His body fighting so hard to stay alive, but this time he knew. He understood. The final secret that had always eluded him: to let go.

One last thought amongst the shards of what was left of his mind: _find me_. Then he gave himself over and let go of the struggle, breathing in deep, letting the water fill his lungs quicker than ever before; deadly this time.

Death wasn’t merciful but a last bright flare of pain, before his heart stopped.

He never heard her furious roar of rage when she realised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All tags, ratings, characters and notes refer to the entirety of this fictional work, not to individual chapters.


	13. Electronic counter-measures

The blare of the alarm tore Q from his sleep. The specific DEFCON breach alarm that he hadn’t ever used before, and that he’d set on every available electronic item that would alert him with sufficient noise.

He almost fell out of his bed in the frantic scramble for his glasses, tripping over Mr Turing, who was standing next to the bed. The cat was meowing demandingly as though telling Q to hurry up and do something, and if he didn’t move quickly bad things would happen. He was right (not in the detail, granted, because for Mr Turing, bad things meant no tuna).

The alarm was what Q had feared the most, and in some ways hoped for more than anything. At least it gave him something to work on; some hope against the odds.

007’s death-chip had activated. Something or someone had stopped Bond’s heart.

Q was on his phone within seconds, speed-dialling the night shift at his branch. The minion who picked up was already informed. All of Q-branch were all loyal to their boss, perhaps more so than to SIS. They knew about the special chip and the alarm, and they’d been monitoring it as much as Q had.

“Sir, we have a location.”

“Where.” Q stumbled over his own feet in a haste to throw on clothes while talking.

“Mexico, Chihuahua state, Ciudad Juárez. High crime rate, lawless city.”

“Shit,” Q swore. Mobile wedged between ear and shoulder, he slipped bare feet into shoes, not giving a damn. “Hang on, how far is it from the US border?”

“Right at the border.”

Pulling a jumper over his head, Q kept the phone in his hand while struggling into the garment. “Good. That’s good.” Already on his way to the door, grabbing bag, keys and coat, he added, “Alert M and Tanner, I take responsibility for that.” He was going to phone Eve himself.

“Immediately, Sir.”

“I’ll be in shortly.” With that he ended the call, and rushed out of the door.

He was going to contact someone he knew through Bond, and who he believed would help the man he called his friend. Felix Leiter, CIA.

Time to call in some favours.

* * * * *

By the time Q's taxi arrived at MI6, Mallory was already in the building. Tanner turned up shortly after, Moneypenny in tow.

Once he'd been briefed by his own staff, Q brought the rest of the group up to scratch with the latest developments.

“We are sending a body retrieval unit,” M decided.

“No!” Q jumped up from his chair, “no, you can’t do that.”

“Excuse me?” M’s voice had turned to ice. “Last time I checked I was still the director of MI6, and if I say that we will send a body retrieval unit, then a body retrieval unit it will be. According to you chip has activated that starts transmitting _at the point of death_.”

Q was too agitated to cower before Mallory. “If anyone could find a way to die and resurrect it is Bond.”

M kept his unwavering gaze on Q, not caving in.

“Please, Sir. There is a good chance Bond is still alive,” Q tried again.

“He is right,” Moneypenny agreed quietly.

“You, too?” Mallory turned his attention to her. “Do you really believe there is a chance to retrieve the agent alive?”

“Yes, Sir.” Both of them said in unison.

“If anyone would have found a way to stop his heart to activate the chip, and to be revived, it is 007,” Q repeated, then added, “and I have been assured the assistance of the CIA.”

“Pardon?” M glared at Q, who for once felt suitably cowed. He knew he’d gone over the director’s head.

“Sir, I contacted Felix Leiter on the off chance he, uhm…”

Miss Moneypenny came to his rescue. “Leiter and Bond have been working together occasionally for many years. They are what could be termed friends.” If Bond wasn’t so adamant to claim he had no friends, was left unsaid.

M’s mouth set in a straight, thin line. “I see,” was all he said. “The CIA doesn’t tend to let its agents run around on flights of fancy. What did you tell him?”

“Exactly the same as I told you, Sir," Q replied. "It seems that Leiter has known Bond for a long time, and trusts him.” Unlike you, the accusation stood unspoken in the room.

M made an indeterminate noise. “Friend or not, Mr Leiter is going to have trouble getting any support from his side without some hook.” He paused, “is all the intel up-to-date?” he asked Q, eyes penetrating.

“Yes, Sir. We’ve found Pavkoric’s involvement with the currently operating drugs cartel to be greater than previously assumed. We believe the cartel has been aiding her in capturing 007.”

M nodded. “Well then, something they’ll be interested in for their ‘War on Drugs.’ Moneypenny, can you get me that idiot who’s replaced the idiot who couldn’t keep his cock in his pants?”

“The Director of the CIA, sir?”

“Yes,” M replied, “sadly, with that lot, the clarification was probably wise.”

Q prudently remained silent throughout the following phone call, fighting to keep his anxious energy under control. He wanted to do something and he wanted to do it right _now_.

Eventually, M dangled enough tempting morsels under the Director's nose, about shutting down the powerful drug cartel right on the border, for him to agree to send Leiter and a small paramilitary team to retrieve Bond and Pavkoric. The Director was new enough in his role, and sufficiently eager for some good news, that it took less time than expected. With the promise to despatch the team immediately and to keep in communication with MI6 through the duration of the rescue operation, he left the small group in M’s office with nothing to do.

A fact that drove Q crazy.

* * * * *

Q had been pacing his bunker incessantly for the past hour, waiting to be contacted by Leiter. He’d even forgotten his tea, which had gone cold and sludgy, and none of his staff managed to calm him down. They had eventually given up, and left him to pacing to and fro in front of the monitors, while tapping his thigh in ever increasing speeds.

“MI6, you there?” the voice was American, male and older. “Leiter here, approaching the Mexican border now. Took us a bit to get the boys kitted up.”

“What took you so bloody long?” Q hissed into his headset.

“A little matter of figurin’ out how not to tell the Mexican government and be able to get out again,” Leiter didn’t sound offended. “Nice folks, but there’re leaks in their back office you wouldn’t believe.”

“Sorry.” Q took a deep breath, steadying himself at his desk. “I’m not at my best.”

“Ah, we all get like that when this sorta thing happens. The chip your idea?” Leiter asked.

“Yes, special design for Bond. It’s a prototype.” Q was watching the tracker signal that had been thoughtfully provided.

“Is it now,” despite his friendly demeanour, Leiter hadn’t got where he was in the CIA without a fearsome set of brains. “Clever, and very useful. Smart of you to put it where it wasn’t cut out like his others probably were.”

“It couldn’t be found,” Q explained, “no signal until,” he hesitated, “until the heart stopped.”

Q could hear the sound of helicopter rotors slowing, then low murmuring. “Looks like we’re here,” Leiter told Q, then spoke to his team.

“Right boys, second building from the corner, looks like it’s in a basement or similar.”

Q hadn’t noticed the arrival of M himself, together with Tanner and Moneypenny; he didn’t notice either that the room had gone eerily quiet. The technicians had stopped working, everyone's concentration on the screens and the audio feed on speakers.

There was the sound of footsteps on pavement, a pause and murmur, and then the sound of a door being kicked in.

Q forgot to breathe, listening to shouting and heavy boots pounding concrete, then the deafening sound of gun fire. More running, heavy thumping that indicated stairs, shouting in Spanish, too garbled to make out and another door being kicked in.

“Holy Mary Mother of God,” came a hushed male voice over the audio feed.

Before Q could say anything, there was the shrill sound like a banshee’s keening, following by male cursing, then the rattle of semi-automatic fire.

“Hostile down,” a breathless male voice reported eventually.

“What is going on!” Q all but yelled.

“Target acquired. Repeat. Target acquired.”

Absolute silence fell over the room. If tension could be measured in voltage, MI6 would be on overkill.

“Status of target?” Q croaked.

“Establishing now.”

Nothing else from the ops team for far too long. Whatever they had found, it didn't seem to look good, taking too much time to affirm.

Q felt his throat tighten, breathing becoming difficult. He barely noticed Eve slipping her hand into his, squeezing hard.

Finally the comms line opened up once more. “Status of target: alive. We are removing to medevac stat.”

The relief within the room was palpable.

“Can you give us visual once you are outside?” Q asked.

“Positive,” the team leader’s voice was strained, “we are removing the target together with the hardware. Stay online.”

The sounds from the line were unexpected: grunts from heavy lifting and metal being hit. Everyone was looking at each other in confusion. Hardware?

The minutes that followed continued to be tense and fraught with worry. they were reduced to listening in to orders being issued, then movement, and noises too loud for the mere transportation of a body.

By the time Eve’s fingers had dug painful grooves into Q’s hand, and Tanner’s knuckles had turned white with their death grip of the table edge, the rescue team had finally arrived outside and was rushing towards the emergency medical team that waited near the helicopter.

The moment they had visual, they wished they hadn’t.

“Oh my god,” Eve breathed out in utter horror.

“What did she _do_ to him?” Tanner choked.

M paled, and swallowed.

“She...” Q felt bile rising in his throat, “she kind of...she...” fighting the bile down unsuccessfully, “...crucified him.”

He made it just in time to throw up into a bin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All tags, ratings, characters and notes refer to the entirety of this fictional work, not to individual chapters.


	14. Scorched Earth

The rescue turned out to be nothing like Q had imagined it to be. Bond was more dead than alive once the medical team had removed the torture instruments his captor had slammed through his body and deeply into the board. They had readied him for transport in a civilian flying ICU service, and since he was unable to breathe on his own, he’d been intubated and sedated. After landing, M had arranged that he was taken straight to the University College London hospital. A wise decision, as medical staff  in A&E soon found out about the extensive nerve destruction in addition to starvation, water intoxication, infection, and serious lung damage.

He was immediately transferred into intensive care of the specialist neurological unit, where emergency surgery was being prepared.

It hadn’t been supposed to end like that: with no guarantee that Bond would survive.

* * * * *

M had decided that Q would be the main contact between agent and MI6, a fact Q was thankful for. Not that Mallory could have prevented him from appearing on the records as Bond’s contact - not since the patient records were kept in electronic form. He could have hacked his way into the medical records, but he didn’t want to read medical jargon he couldn’t understand without several dictionaries.

A few hours later, Q was finally able to get hold of the senior consultant who had conducted the emergency surgery. The man seemed willing to take his time, guiding Q to a desk station, mounted with a couple of monitors. He pulled up a CT scan of Bond’s right shoulder. Even Q as a layman could see the terrible destruction radiating from, all around and beneath the clavicle and shoulder joint, down to and penetrating the shoulder blade.

He wished fiercely, for a moment full of hatred and revenge, that Branka Pavkoric wasn’t dead yet.

The consultant turned away from the CT image and focused on Q. “There are four major issues we are treating at the moment. Three which are potentially immediately life threatening, and one that affects the long-term. We are confident that one of the two immediate issues can be kept under control, while the other two are serious concerns right now.”

Q nodded, trying to keep his anxiety under control.

“The two life threatening concerns are the after effects of drowning, which means fluid remains in the lungs, and bacterial pneumonia. Secondly, the patient suffers from dilutional hyponatremia, and...”

“Excuse me?” Q interrupted.

“Ah, yes, sorry.” The consultant looked a little pained at having to use non-medical terms. “Water intoxication. It’s a potentially fatal disturbance in brain functions, which is a result of the body’s electrolytes being out of balance.”

“Is that an effect of drowning?” Q was confused.

“No,” the surgeon seemed rather uncomfortable. “We believe from the physical evidence that it is a result of a repeated, forced ingestion of large amounts of water.”

Things clicked into place and Q wished they hadn’t. “Waterboarding,” he said tonelessly.

“Actually, we believe it to have been more extreme. My colleague has looked into cases known from several recent war crime tribunals, and we are fairly certain that the patient was subjected to what is known as water cure. This would also explain the damage to the oesophagus lining and the bruising around the stomach area.”

“What do you mean?” Q stared at the consultant, utterly horrified.

“I’m sorry, I really am for your colleague, but it seems he was forced to ingest large quantities of water, then beaten around the stomach area to vomit it back up. We can deal with the physical damage of the beating, since there are no ruptures present, but the electrolyte imbalance is a precarious situation.”

Q forced down bile and pushed away mental images he couldn’t deal with right now. Thankful for the surgeon’s matter-of-fact demeanour. “What...” he croaked, then cleared his throat, “what are you doing about that imbalance?”

“We are administering Vasopressin receptor antagonists.”

Q just stared at him once more, uncomprehending this time.

“I apologise for the jargon. We are using a new type of drugs, called vaptans. The electrolyte imbalance caused by water intoxication means the sodium concentration is too low in the blood. Vaptan increases urinary excretion, but does not affect sodium and electrolyte levels. The effect is that body water is decreased, while sodium levels rise.”

“And you have that under control?”

“We are quite positive.”

Q nodded slowly, trying to cling to the little that was positive. “The pneumonia?” He asked tentatively.

“The patient is on a ventilator and has been intubated well before he arrived here. We have placed drains to excrete excess fluid from the lungs, but we are very worried about the bacterial infection. Despite the high doses of a variety of first-line and second-line antibiotics we are constantly administering, there are no signs of his body reacting to them yet. The patient’s general state is very weak, and we have not been successful to keep his temperature under control. The fever is still rising.”

Q’s head was beginning to swim. “It’s bad, then.”

“Yes, I am not going to play down the risk factors. There is the danger of pulmonary abscess, fibrosis, empyema, acute respiratory distress syndrome, ventilator dependency, and finally respiratory failure. I am afraid it is very serious, but it is not hopeless.”

“Not hopeless,” Q repeated. Everything else had gone straight over his head. Hope in their line of work was in short supply. “And the third concern you mentioned?”

“Infection of the wounds, and necrotic tissue. Fortunately, we believe we can control the infections, and the emergency surgery has dealt with the tissue removal.”

Q nodded once more, there wasn’t much else he could do. Bond’s state sounded so much worse than he had been able to imagine, even after he’d seen him on the video feed. He remembered the sight of the damaged body too well.

“What about the injuries?” he made himself ask.

“That’s the long-term issue that I mentioned, which will become important if the patient survives.”

 _If_. If Bond survived. Oddly enough the consultant’s straightforward talking helped him cope. “Tell me, please.”

The consultant nodded and reached for a file. He looked it over for a short while, then pulled up an anatomical drawing on the other monitor.

He pointed at the CT scan of Bond’s destroyed shoulder on the screen. “The patient is suffering from brachial plexus injury on the right upper extremity.” Moving to the other monitor, he used the blunt end of a pen to circle the affected areas around the clavicle and beyond.

“The brachial plexus is the network of nerves that sends signals from the spine to the shoulder, arm and hand. In the case of this patient, the nerves have been completely torn away.” He pulled up an additional set of CT images and pointed out several areas. “As you can see from the scans, the injuries are extreme. The nerves have been severed in such a way that the cell bodies of the sensory nerves have been pulled from the cord, thus diminishing the possibility of recovery or surgical reconstruction.”

“What is the worst case scenario?” Q felt he needed to know, but then the worst case scenario was death. Not living with a permanent injury.

“In the worst case, the patient will retain paralysis of his right shoulder, arm, wrist and hand.”

Q swallowed hard. A hole of despair had opened up, on Bond’s behalf. If he survived - _if_ he pulled off another resurrection - it would be the end of everything he had ever been.

“We will do all in our power,” the consultant tried to reassure. “The emergency surgery already attempted repair procedures, and there is the potential for reconstructive procedures later. It will be a very slow process, whatever the outcome, but with patience, physical therapy to maintain joint motion and suppleness, and bracing for protection, there is hope, too.”

Q realised what the surgeon was doing, trying to veer him into a more positive state of mind. Too late, after everything he’d been told. He wanted to know; needed to. All of it.

“What are his chances?” he eventually asked. He had never believed in pussyfooting around anything. Better to deal with the facts, no matter how bad they looked. “And please don’t give me that ‘hope’ speech again. Just tell me straight, what are his chances in the current state he is in?”

“That depends.”

“Meaning?”

“I am aware that I do not have access to the patient’s full medical files. Anyone can see that he has suffered previous injuries in his life and survived them.” If the surgeon was perturbed by that, he didn’t show it. “Thus I can only make an educated guess as to the resilience of the patient.”

“All I can tell you is that his hobby has been resurrection for the last twenty years.”

The consultant nodded slowly. “I see.” Glancing at his notes once more, he took a moment before he replied. “About twenty per cent at this stage. Thirty per cent is an optimistic estimation.”

Q felt like he’d been punched and kicked, then left to bleed out. “Optimistic,” he repeated tonelessly.

It was much worse than he’d expected. He’d foolishly thought that if he got Bond out that would be that. He’d bounce back like he’d always done. He couldn’t understand why the thought of losing Bond hurt that much. It was all wrong.

“I’m afraid so. With everything I have just told you, the patient is far too weak. He does not have any resources left. Other than keep him stable, on the ventilator, his vitals monitored, bombarding him with antibiotics and vaptans, and keep him fully sedated, there is not much else we can do for the patient other than wait and hope for the best.”

“Bond,” Q said, unthinking. “James Bond.”

“Pardon?” The consultant seemed confused.

“His name is James Bond, not ‘patient’.”

“My apologies. You are down as his emergency contact, but I didn’t realise you were family.”

“I am not.” Q jutted out his chin, face hardening. “He does not have any family. My colleagues and I, we are the closest that he has to family.”

“I understand. Do you request visiting rights?”

“You’ll see that I already have those.” The hospital’s database had been pathetically easy to hack.

“Good, good.” The consultant nodded distractedly, while checking his notes once more. “I’m afraid I cannot recommend visitation right now, not in the pa... Mr Bond’s fragile state. Any exposure to potential infectious agents could be deadly.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you.” The thought of Bond dying filled him with all-encompassing dread.

The consultant guided Q to a large glass panel, which gave a view of the figure on the bed, dwarfed by hardware around and above, attached to tubing, electrodes, cables and IV lines. Not much left of the man that Q knew, he was hardly visible amongst the machinery. What little he could see of Bond was thin and grey, a living corpse whose vital functions were kept alive by medical technology.

This was not what Q had expected when he’d finally got Bond home.

* * * * *

The call came in the early evening, during a senior staff meeting. Q knew the moment his private phone rang; the one he never used for anything but dealing with civilians; the one he’d given to the UCL Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery.

Against all rules of professional behaviour, he picked up the call and without even an apology, stepped just outside of the meeting room. All eyes followed him, while Mallory glared.

He didn’t want to take this call, every part of him screaming ‘no’.

“Yes?”

“Sir, you asked us to contact you if Mr Bond’s condition worsened.”

Q’s stomach clenched. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

“I am afraid there is a high probability that he won’t make it through the night.”

Q doubled over as if punched to the guts. So that was that, the string of resurrections had finally come to an end?

“I’ll be there. I am allowed in the room now, yes?” Thinking with ever growing devastation that the threat of infection wouldn’t matter any longer.

“Of course, Sir. You are down as Mr Bond’s primary contact.”

“Yes, I am.” Q ended the call. He had nothing more to say.

When he stepped back into the room, everyone looked at him quizzically. Taking a private call in the middle of a meeting of Heads was unheard of.

Q ignored everyone, went back to his chair and started to pack his bag. “I have to leave.” His voice sounded bleak even to his own ears.

“You can’t just leave,” M declared firmly, “MI6 is not a nursery.”

“I _have_ to leave.” Q shook his head, eyes on his hands as they went along the task of securing the tablet and closing his bag. Going through the motions like a puppet.

“Q!” M had stood up, looming over the table. “If you leave now there will be consequences. I do not accept unprofessional behaviour from one of my Heads.”

“I don’t care!” Q snapped, suddenly full of useless, helpless rage.

Q ignored the shocked reactions from the people around the meeting table, even the choked sound of distress from Moneypenny, who was the only one who seemed to have made the connection.

“Excuse me?” M roared.

“That call, Sir,” Q pronounced each syllable with extra care, “was from the hospital. Bond’s condition has taken a turn for the worse and they do not expect him to make it through the night. I frankly don’t give a damn about repercussions if I’m leaving now without your permission. I’m going to go to the hospital and I’m going to sit in that room for however long I have to.” He snatched up his bag and his empty mug.

Mallory’s demeanour changed instantly. His anger evaporated, and his voice had softened. “You do know that this is not in your power to fix, don’t you?” M’s expression was grim but sympathetic. “There is nothing you can do.”

“You’re wrong, there _is_ something I can do. I will not let Bond die alone.”

He didn’t wait around for anyone’s reaction, fleeing the room.

* * * * *

By the time he had returned grabbed his coat from Q-branch, Moneypenny was waiting in the staircase for him, overcoat on and handbag over her arm. “I’ve got a car,” she said simply.

Q nodded. His throat felt too tight, and from her stony expression he knew she was affected, too.

“I don’t know...” he started, but trailed off, not knowing what he actually wanted to say.

She placed her hand onto his arm and squeezed once. “I understand. Come on, darling, I take you to the hospital.”

* * * * *

Q was given a yellow plastic apron to wear over his clothes, told to put plastic covers over his shoes, and to wear a pair of blue latex gloves. He did everything as instructed, numb to what the medical staff was saying. Focused only on one immovable fact: Bond was dying; he, Q, was never going to get another chance.

Stepping into the room, the magnitude of the situation hit him with full force: what had been devastating to see through the glass, was truly shattering up close. The registrar had tried to prepare him, had explained some of the most disturbing sights, such as the endotracheal air tubes hanging out of Bond’s slack mouth, and the intubation line in his nose, that fed nutrients straight into his stomach. Yet no matter how much he’d been told, it couldn’t prepare him for reality.

Bond was lying on his back, completely still except for the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest from the ventilator. A white sheet had been draped over most of his body, leaving part of his lower legs in view, which looked like they belonged to a human-sized doll in their white pressure stockings and tight cuffs. Q fought the ridiculous urge to pull the sheet down and cover Bond’s feet properly, like his mother had done for him when he was sick as a child.

A light blue, patterned hospital gown peeked out over the top of the sheet, leaving the top half of his bare chest exposed and peppered with electrodes. Cables lead to an overwhelming array of machinery and monitors, surrounding the bed at both sides and overhead. The medical technology dwarfed the broken human, making him seem insignificant, while the technology was the only thing that kept Bond alive.

IV lines had been put into the back of his left hand and the inside of his elbow, while the right was bandaged all the way from the hand to the mutilated shoulder. Q felt nauseous at the sight of the reddish fluids in the drainage tubes, and quickly looked away. Numerous lines appeared from beneath the sheet at various parts, and he was glad he didn’t have to comprehend their function.

“Hello, James,” Q said softly. He’d never used the first name before, and it struck him as odd. During all their sexual encounters they had never been intimate enough for such a small thing as using first names - or perhaps it wasn’t that small after all, and sex wasn’t necessarily intimate.

Q sat down on a chair close to the bed, trying to find a place on the still body that he could touch. More anchoring himself, he thought dejectedly, than Bond. He didn’t like the barrier of the gloves, but hoped that perhaps, somewhere in James’ dying mind, he could sense the warmth and weight from Q’s hand. He eventually decided to place it gently on the left biceps.

“I don’t know if you are able to sense anything at all, but I hope that maybe you do, because I hope that you know you are not alone.” Q trailed off, watching how the ventilator forced the lungs to fill and the chest to expand, then do it all in reverse, repeating it steadily and endlessly. “Thing is, you haven’t been alone for quite a while, even though you probably didn’t realise it. There’s Eve, who drove me here, and who I bet isn’t getting any sleep tonight. Then there’s Bill, who is fretting far more about you than he’d ever let on. And Felix, of course. Good old Leiter. You probably would have been surprised at how quickly he agreed to push through with the rescue mission. You do have far more of an impact than you think...far beyond your looks and your charm.”

Q laughed sadly to himself. “See? I am admitting it now that you’re not going to drive me mad with your smirk and your quips. You are bloody charming, even when you’re not using it to gain anything, or perhaps especially then.” He fell quiet, lifting his head to study the erratic lines and arrhythmic blips of the monitor displaying Bond’s vital signs. Soon returning his attention to the man and not the machines.

“Let’s not forget your goddamned stubborn, utterly unbreakable loyalty: to England first and foremost, and then to anything and anyone you decide worthy to give your loyalty to.” Q leaned closer, looking beyond the breathing tubes and feeding line to focus on the unresponsive face. “I sometimes wish you had chosen me as one of those you are loyal to.”

He trailed off once more, gently stroking Bond’s skin with his gloved thumb, never breaking contact. “You know, if you do need to let go,” and how _that_ word hurt more than it should, “you can. It’s okay, but to be honest, I’d rather you didn’t. I’m a selfish person, I want you to fight just one more time. Just one more resurrection.” He tried so hard to ignore the sounds from the machines that were proof to how poorly Bond’s life signs really were.

“I want you to stay,” Q murmured. His quiet voice the only human sound in the room. “I really, really do want you to stay. I would even beg for it if it made any difference.” He smiled sadly, while continuing to hold onto the dying man.

“But I guess I don’t get a say in this. Serves me right, the Quartermaster who was fooled twice, and who sent you into that trap. The idiot who never bothered to _ask_ you what you wanted, and instead decided that you wanted nothing.” He huffed at his own words. “See? It’s all about me again.”

His elbow on the bed, Q leaned closer and settled in for the long haul. “Let’s do it differently then. Let me tell you the story of the Quartermaster and his Agent. The agent was a really annoying git with a tendency to drive the quartermaster crazy. But the quartermaster, let’s call him Q, never did tell his infuriating agent that he secretly enjoyed the irritating man, and that he relished being the voice in the agent’s ear. Let’s call the agent James, shall we? James didn’t need Q to tell him that secret, because he knew anyway. He was perceptive like that.”

Q continued to talk. All through the night, only taking breaks from talking when medical staff came to check on their patient, and he got to sip some water. Then he talked some more, quipped and joked, bantered one-sided by playing the part of the agent as well as his own, and talking about everything he’d ever thought and done in relation to one James Bond. He talked until his throat was sore and his voice turned hoarse, but he never gave up.

The longer he talked, and the closer it got to morning, the more the nurses’ behaviour became more positive.

By morning, when Bond’s vitals continued to bleep the fact of his existence across the monitors, against all predictions, the senior consultant expressed a tentative hope.

That was enough for Q, because during that night he had figured out where MI6 had misplaced that most precious of all commodities: hope had been hidden inside words and thoughts, and the touch of skin beneath his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All tags, ratings, characters and notes refer to the entirety of this fictional work, not to individual chapters.


	15. Force concentration

Bond lived.

With each passing day, his vitals were getting stronger. He was kept in an artificial coma, but Q visited regardless, whenever he could. He would sit, and he would talk. About what was going on in Q-branch, his plans for new gadgets, some programme he was working on, or whatever else came to his mind. Rarely anything unconnected to MI6, but then that was their lives.

* * * * *

Several days later, the consultant decided to let Bond come out of the coma. Slowly, slowly, some colour returned to his skin, and by the time Q was told Bond should wake up soon, he looked a little less like a corpse.

* * * * *

Lids fluttered and Bond opened bleary blue eyes. He started and tried to move, but stopped almost immediately. Dizzy. Numb. Pain - dulled. Warm. Air breath mouth. Lungs burn. Body - covered. Back soft. Light. Noise. Tired so tired. Weak.

He wasn’t alone for long, the change in breathing and heart rate had alerted the ICU’s nursing station.

“Hello, Commander Bond,” a warm female voice said, “I’m glad you have come back to us.”

He couldn’t get his vision to cooperate, couldn’t even keep his eyelids open for long enough to try. It took a moment for his sluggish, drugged brain to make the connection of female, voice, _Bond_ , touch, pain, and he panicked. The machines went into a cacophony of terrorised heartbeats and frantic blood pressure, the coloured lights of the monitor jumping erratically, while the red alert signal flashed.

The nurse pressed the call button, but incoming with the rush of medical staff, was a skinny, bespectacled man with wild, dark hair.

“James!” Q called out, before anyone could stop him. “You’re safe. You’re in England. You’re safe, James. You’re in hospital.”

The frantic heartbeat quietened. Dull blue eyes struggled to open again, trying to find the source of that well-known voice. The voice meant safety. Trust. Support. England.

The staff allowed Q to come closer to the bed. “It’s alright,” Q kept talking, like he had done from the first night through to that very moment. “You’re in London, you’re in hospital, you’re safe.” He kept repeating those words like a mantra, until Bond had calmed and the medical personnel were satisfied with the patient’s vitals.

Once they’d gone back outside, with the registrar and a nurse remaining in the room, Q tried to explain that the terrible injuries had been inflicted by a woman. It was soon decided that the nurse’s voice had probably triggered the panic reaction in the semi-conscious patient, and that the unit’s male orderly would accompany any female medical staff.

 _Four_ women now, not three, Q thought as he watched through the glass.

* * * * *

Q sat on his customary chair at his customary place beside Bond’s bed. It had become ‘his’ on the day Bond had woken up, and had remained so for the many days that followed.

He’d brought in the get-well cards from MI6 on the second day, once Bond could keep his eyes open for longer than ten seconds and actually managed to focus enough to see. Amongst the tokens had been the most atrociously saccharine teddy bear in a sailor outfit from Moneypenny, holding an awful heart-shaped red balloon that was emblazoned with ‘get well soon’. He’d been embarrassed to present it, but Eve, the evil witch, had been adamant that he should take it, since flowers weren’t allowed. Why on earth she had chosen such a dreadful present was beyond Q, until he saw Bond’s reaction: his eyes had twitched, as had the corners of his lips, and Q would have bet all of his computer equipment on Bond laughing silently, in the only way he could right now.

The embarrassment had been worth it, but he wouldn’t do it again.

During the following days he found the one positive outcome in this entire mess; he was training up a second in command, and the person he had chosen turned out to be excellent. If he wasn’t so aware of his own genius, he might even have worried about her taking over his job one day soon, she was that good.

* * * * *

During one of his evening visits, Q was filling in The Times’ crossword puzzle, thinking that Bond was resting.

“Talk.” A rough voice brought him out of his concentration. Bond’s vocal cords were still healing and every word hurt, so he used as few as possible.

“How you manage to be as demanding as ever with only one word, is beyond me.” Q sighed exaggeratedly, but put down his newspaper.

Bond quirked one corner of his mouth in response.

“I’m running out of things to talk about,” Q whined, “and they won’t let me bring my tablet. Interferences with the sensitive machinery, apparently.”

“Listen?” Bond watched him, and if that look in those tired eyes wasn’t pleading, then Q didn’t know. There was no way he could not acquiesce.

“You like my voice that much, huh?” he quipped, fiddling with the towel rolls that kept Bond’s head comfortably in place. For no reason whatsoever, except for his hands having something to do.

“Safety.” Bond gave a tiny nod.

“My voice?”

Bond nodded again.

“And here I thought I was getting on your nerves with my chattering in your ear.” Q grinned, playing over the sudden surge of emotion.

Bond was silent for a while. Seemingly content with watching Q, who’d gone onto fussing with the wadding that had been placed beneath Bond’s curled up right hand.

“Please.” Bond said eventually, pulling Q out of his contemplations.

“Sorry, of course. You want me to talk, and since your wish has always been my command,” Q huffed, aware that never a truer word had been spoken, “I will talk. I have an idea, I’ll bring a book tomorrow. What about Lord of the Rings?”

Bond let out wheeze that was meant to be a groan.

“Fine, no classics, then. Not even The Hobbit?”

That got the same reaction. Before he could suggest another favourite, Bond interrupted.

“Wasteland.”

Q was puzzled for a moment before catching on. “Poetry?”

Again the barely perceptible nod.

“TS Eliot, good choice,” Q smiled. “I probably have a copy at home, from my student days. I’m crap at remembering poetry, though. Give me lines of code, no problem. But words? Not so much. The only bit of poetry I can remember is a Shakespeare sonnet. Funny that’s the only one I’ve ever memorised.”

Q started to recite without hesitation. “Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, so do our minutes hasten to their end. Each changing place with that which goes before, in sequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity, once in the main of light, crawls to maturity...” he stopped abruptly, suddenly realising the sonnet’s subject of mortality.

He glanced at Bond, worried he might have triggered a negative reaction, but the man merely smiled faintly at him, then closed his eyes, once more slipping away to sleep.

“No scythe for you yet,” Q whispered, “not if I have any say in that.”

* * * * *

A couple of days later, Bond was transferred out of the high dependency wing, now that he could breathe on his own and only required an oxygen cannula. He had battled the worst of the pneumonia, the increasingly clear x-rays of his lungs giving rise away from hope and to certainty, well beyond mere hope.

Q commandeered a more comfortable chair on his first visit to the new location, installed himself beside Bond’s bed once more, and was soon typing away on a spruced-up netbook. Tapping into the triple-secured wireless he’d had installed in the private room.

Bond was dozing, but stirred when an extremely cheerful assistant came in with the lunch tray.

Q blinked at the covered dishes, then at the happily smiling woman, before finally settling on Bond with a raised eyebrow.

“What?” Bond rasped.

“Want me to leave?”

“Why?”

“Lunchtime.” Q shrugged.

“Not necessary.”

“Alright.” Q turned to the woman to tell her he’d handle lunch, and she was happy to leave them to it.

“If you feed me now I will kill you.” Bond growled hoarsely.

“I hate to tell you, but your threats are not particularly impressive right now.” Q smirked at him, all teeth on display.

“Since when do the convalescent get insulted.”

“Since the day you became one.” Q stirred the tomato soup, which didn’t look nor smell too badly. “Besides, you’d tell me to bugger off if I treated you with kid gloves.”

Bond didn’t reply, but the expression on his face said ‘touché’ as much as his words could have.

“Give me your left hand.” Q reached out to the level he knew Bond could lift his arm, then gently pulled it across. Wrapping Bond’s around the spoon, then his own over it, he smiled triumphantly. “See? That way I’m not feeding you, just guiding your hand.”

Bond rolled his eyes, but the smile he flashed in reply was enough to tell Q he’d done the right thing.

They got through the meal together, and if Q didn’t let go of Bond’s hand once the man had slipped back into sleep, it was nobody’s business.

* * * * *

Bond’s progress was slow, but steady. The dogged determination he had displayed through all of his career was working to his advantage now. He could soon sit up by himself, and worked hard every day to gain enough strength and control in his left arm to recover its function. Some of it simply needed time and exercise.

* * * * *

Q found that he genuinely enjoyed keeping Bond company. Even when Bond was asleep in the bed while he sat beside him, working away on his tech. Most of all, he had come to look forward to reading to him, finding it remarkably relaxing.

He’d just finished a short story from ‘Inspector Morse’s Omnibus’ - which Bond had requested - when he sensed the blue eyes unwaveringly focused on him. He put the book down.

It took him a while to brace himself to ask a question he’d been desperate to ask.

“Did you want to die?”

Bond looked at him for a long time, his facial expression calm.

“I wanted it to stop,” he finally replied. “I knew she didn’t want anything other than make me suffer. I had no bargaining chip, no angle, no hope to change my situation. This was revenge, nothing else.”

Q remained silent, because if he had learned anything over the last weeks, then it was patience.

“I had your tracker, the one she couldn’t find. I knew it would activate when I died.” Bond paused, catching his breath, “it was a win-win situation.”

“Either way, your situation would change?”

“Either way, the pain would stop.” Bond said simply.

Q grimaced, cursing his stupid English tendency for euphemism, but Bond offered him the ghost of a smirk.

“I took a gamble, because at that point I had nothing to lose. She hated me enough to want me alive for a lot longer. She wasn’t going to let my death cut her revenge short.”

“How did you do it? The consultant told me you had all the symptoms of drowning.”

“Precisely.”

Q stared at him, willing Bond on without having to ask for details. Eventually, the man relented.

“You know what she did, the water cure, you said the consultant explained it to you.”

Q nodded. He had also gone and researched it afterwards.

“I knew I had to really want it. I had to let go.”

Q’s eyes widened at the echo of words being shouted in anger. That conversation had replayed itself in his mind too many times to ever forget. He didn’t know what to say, but then Bond didn’t seem to expect a reply.

They sat quietly for a long while, Q lost in his thoughts and jumbled feelings.

Bond eventually broke the silence. “Do you want to know what my last thought was?”

Q nodded, his throat too tight to talk.

“Find me.” Bond gave him a faint smile, “and you did.”

Q suddenly wanted to cry, and he had no idea why.

* * * * *

The next time Q came to visit, he found Bond to be in a spectacularly bad mood. Vacillating between sulking and angry, he glared at his visitor.

“What did I do now?” Q quipped.

“I’m fucking bored to death.”

“Now, now, Commander Bond,” Q grinned, “language.”

“Fuck off.”

“Really? That bad?”

“Yes. You try lying around in a hospital bed for days on end with endless rounds of gaggles of doctors and nurses to break up the routine.”

Q decided not to pull Bond up on the wild exaggeration, and sat down. “I’d be going insane.”

“Exactly, and it’s been _weeks_.”

“Not that you can remember the first two.” Q baited. They’d slipped back into their old banter, and damn was it a good feeling.

“Doesn’t make a difference,” Bond positively sulked.

Q grinned extra brightly at the strop. “Have you resorted to tormenting the nurses yet?”

Bond glared at him.

“Is that a yes?”

The glare ratcheted up in intensity.

Q sighed, “what about the netbook?”

“Pain to use.” Bond wiggled the fingers of his left.

“Let’s try this, then.” Q rummaged in the bag he’d set onto the floor, and pulled out his tablet. He handed it over with only a stab of unease, and not the anticipated dread. He hated giving his own gadgets to anyone, but curiously he didn’t mind Bond having it all that much.

“Let me know how you get on,” Q stood up, “I’m grabbing a tea in the cafeteria. Want anything?”

“No thanks, my quota of hospital food and beverages has been filled for today.”

Q chuckled, and left.

When he got back, Bond was tapping away on the tablet, looking less frustrated than he had for a long time.

“Going well, then?”

“So-so,” Bond replied, non-committal.

Q watched him while sipping his passable tea, concentrating on the way Bond’s left hand moved across the screen, fingers trying to accommodate unaccustomed behaviour. The longer he watched, the more an idea to take on form.

“If the keys were here,” he reached across to indicate on the screen, “would that be easier for you?”

Bond tried the movement where indicated, then nodded.

“And what about if some of the commands were over there?”

Again, the same. They continued like that for a while, before Q took notes in between checking his smart phone to direct his minions who had turned out to be perfectly capable on less critical mission support.

By the time he had to leave he had a fairly detailed concept of the required modifications.

* * * * *

At the knock on his door, Bond expected Q, his most regular visitor. He was surprised to see Miss Moneypenny instead.

“Hello, James.” She smiled, uncharacteristically hesitant in the door frame. “May I come in?”

“Of course.” He put the modified tablet onto his lap, which Q had presented to him two days after he’d come up with the idea.

“How are you?” She settled down on the chair beside his bed.

Instead of a reply, he studied her like an unknown specimen. “What’s wrong?”

“Why? Nothing’s wrong.”

“You behave like someone I don’t know. What are those social niceties about?”

She sighed. “I guess that’s me feeling awkward.”

“Why ever that?”

“Because I want to apologise to you and have been waiting for this opportunity since before you’ve come out of the coma, and it’s much harder than I expected.” She took a deep breath once she’d finished.

“Please explain to me what the hell you want to apologise for. I didn’t suffer from amnesia that nobody told me about, did I?”

“You can’t remember?”

“Eve!”

His sharp retort made her feel sheepish. “It’s a few months ago now. I cornered you after the bust up with Q, before you went to Albania for the Major Pavkoric mission.”

He stared at her uncomprehendingly, until finally, there was realisation dawning in his eyes. “The bit where you accused me of using Q?”

She nodded miserably.

His reply was unexpected: he laughed.

“James?”

“Good grief, are you really still hung up on that?”

“Obviously, or I wouldn’t ask you to forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. You were angry on Q’s behalf, I was angry, too, and the outcome were a few things said in anger. It’s no big deal, Eve. I’ve lashed out much worse in my life.”

She let out a breath she’d been holding, and reached across to squeeze his left hand. “You know, James, you’re not half as bad as any of the Ms, past and present, have everyone believe.”

He just laughed again.

* * * * *

A week later, after daily visits from Q, and several visits from Moneypenny and even Tanner, it turned out to be the time for the big guns.

“Bond.” M greeted him with a grave nod, as he entered the room.

“Sir.”

“I am glad to see you are getting better.”

Bond snorted and didn’t grace the platitude with a reply.

M pulled up the chair and sat down, further away from the bed than any of the others had settled. The lines of his body spoke of a man who didn’t want to be where he was, and didn’t want to do what he had to.

Bond wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

“I believe you have been informed that a new 007 was appointed in your absence.” M made it a statement, not a question.

“Indeed, Sir.” As if Q, Moneypenny and Tanner hadn’t kept him up to date.

“I also believe you are aware of your medical prognosis?”

“Of course.” He could almost enjoy this, watching M squirm like a metaphorical fish on a hook.

“The damage is permanent, even at its most optimistic.”

“I do know my medical notes, Sir.”

“Then you will know that we cannot send out an agent into the field who has no use of one arm.” M finally spilled the beans and Bond felt almost glad the words had been said. It was a relief to face the facts.

“Yes, this makes perfect sense.” He was going to be retired, there was no way around it. “I knew at the time that I was not going to recuperate from the damage inflicted.”

“She was a butcher,” M said quietly. Compassion in his eyes, never pity. He had been tortured himself. “I am loathe to lose your expertise, it would be a waste of invaluable resources.”

Bond looked at him, unsure where the director was going with this.

“To be honest, Bond, I don’t know yet what to do about you. You are ill-suited to desk work,” this brought a grimace from Bond, “but we will have to revoke your double-O license, since you won’t be able to go out in the field. The long and short of it is, I don’t want to lose you.”

“I’m surprised, Sir. I thought I was the most annoying of your agents, and the one who caused you the greatest problems.”

“And at the same time you achieved the best results,” M shrugged. “My predecessor knew what she was doing.”

“Yes,” Bond’s voice softened, “she did.”

Silence fell between the two men, each locked in their own memories.

“I suppose it will all depend on how you are recuperating and to which level.” M finally broke the silence. “I’m not at all certain that you’d be suited to training recruits…” He cut off at Bond’s grimace, and corrected himself. “No, you are definitely not suited, I understand that.”

“I was told it will take a long time to get my strength back, several months.”

“Take all the time you need.”

“I intend to halve it.”

M huffed. “Of course you do. Rest assured MI6’s training resources and support units will be available to you.”

Bond gave a small nod, barely an indication of his chin.

They didn’t say anything for a while, only the muffled sounds of the hospital’s day to day business coming through the closed door. M eventually stood up.

“That is all for now. I trust you are looked after well.” If there was ever an awkward well-wishing, that was it. M was at the door, gripping the handle, when Bond’s quiet voice stopped him.

“Why, Sir?” He didn’t need to elaborate.

“Because unlike my predecessor, I believe that sometimes sentiment and logic can complement each other.”

* * * * *

Moneypenny had staged an intervention around the time Q had fallen asleep at his desk, using Mr Turing as a pillow, who - for reasons unbeknownst to anyone - had subjected himself to the indignity of providing a soft, warm, purring headrest.

She had seen to M sending Q home to sleep, accompanied by none other than Tanner who took his duty very seriously and wouldn’t listen to any of the Quartermaster’s objections. He was not allowed back at HQ - nor in the hospital - before the next eighteen hours and yes, she would make sure that Bond knew Q was being detained for his own good. Just in case Bond might ask for him.

Which he did, to everyone’s surprise except Miss Moneypenny’s.

She was equally unsurprised when Q asked her if she could visit him at home for a chat.

* * * * *

That evening, she arrived at Q’s flat with a bottle of wine and two Chinese takeaways.

“Eat,” she ordered firmly, finding Q’s plates and cutlery, and dishing them out - not forgetting to put a few pieces of cleaned-up sweet-and-sour pork into Mr Turing’s dish.

“I’m not hungry,” he whined, sounding too much like a petulant teenager even to his own ears.

“I didn’t say you were, but you’ve been living off whatever comes out of vending machines for far too long. You need to eat some real food before you die of scurvy.”

“It takes a lot longer to develop scurvy,” Q admonished her, “and I highly doubt that takeaway counts as nutritious food.” He did obediently start to eat, however.

“It’s got vegetables in it,” Eve defended, pointing at a few slithers of green pepper amongst the deep-fried nuggets of meat and the sticky sweet sauce.

He answered with a non-committal hum, but realised quickly that he was actually a lot hungrier than he’d thought.

She poured them both large glasses of wine, before sitting back on Q’s sofa. “So, why the summons?”

He quickly swallowed his last mouthful. “I’m bloody confused.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Now that’s a first. What about?”

“Bond.” Q looked at her, his expression as compelling as a puppy’s.

Eve tilted her head. “And?”

“Well, I…I don’t know. I’m all over the place. Pretty much since I told him to bugger off.” He heaved a sigh, “and now, he’s all weak and broken but no, that’s not really it, I never look at him like that, but on the other hand, and…” Q waved his hands about, “it’s all so confusing!”

Whatever the response he’d expected, it wasn’t a strangled chortle, when Eve slapped her hand over her mouth. “Darling,” she said at last, “you mean you never figured out you were in love with the man?”

“What?” Q squeaked indignantly. “I’m not in love with James Bond!”

“Really?” Eve persisted. “Sounded like all the symptoms to me - not to mention the state you’ve been in ever since he was in South Africa, or the fact that your ‘being an arse’ was all about you wanting more from him than you were getting.”

“But I…” Q looked at her helplessly, as so many things suddenly fell into place, leaving him overwhelmed and reeling with the realisation. “Oh,” he exhaled softly, then buried his face in his hands, “I’ve been such a bloody idiot.”

Eve put her dinner down on the coffee table and reached over. “Happens to the best of us.”

“But what do I do now?” he peeked up from his fingers, a picture of misery.

Eve leaned back in thought. “First,” she said practically, “he has to get back on his feet. I’ll bet in a week’s time, maximum, he’ll be crawling the walls and making the hospital staff fight urges to do him more harm than good.”

“He’ll be transferred to MI6’s own medical soon,” Q explained, “it’s already been organised.”

“That’s because he lives alone, and his flat’s the last place for anyone trying to recover from anything worse than a cold. These days, nearly everyone who has someone living in the same house, and who can call the ambulance if something goes wrong, can be treated as an outpatient with specialist visits at home.” She looked significantly at Q.

It took Q an embarrassingly long moment before he caught on. “This flat’s far too small, and it only has one proper bed. I doubt he’d be happy if I told him he’ll sleep in my bed after all the crap I said to him.”

Eve shook her head, taking a pointed look around. “True, and those stairs are a death-trap, by the way. But this isn’t the only building MI6 has vetted, you know, and this is far below the grade that a Head of Department is entitled to. This is the second one you’ve had since you joined, isn’t it?”

“No, actually, it’s the first. I could never be bothered to move.” He looked at her, and she could see how that big brain of his was getting into gear. “So…what exactly are you insinuating?”

She got out her tablet and poked at it for a few seconds, before showing it to him with a flourish. “Two bedroom ground floor flat, Kensington. With side courtyard and access to private garden. Secure building, full of MI5, MI6 and FCO. Rated for Department Head, lifetime lease. Last tenant’s just died”

“Of what?” Q asked suspiciously.

“Old age,” she laughed at him. “He was a WWII veteran, and senior SOE. We don’t kill people to cancel lease agreements.”

Q stared at the property photos in disbelief. The place was absolutely stunning and spacious. “This…this is, what? A million quid? Two?”

“About three with the additions and the accessibility renovations we had made to it - walk in shower, sunken bath, wide corridors, wide doors, you know - Colonel Lewis had some mobility issues near the end, not to mention his arthritis kept bothering him. Kitchen’s a bit small, just a walk-in counter, but otherwise it’s very nice. Oh, and pets allowed.” She glanced over at Mr Turing, who was reclining on one of the dining chairs.

“This is just a bit too convenient for my liking.” Q looked at her with narrowed eyes, “are you sure you aren’t making this all up?”

“So suspicious,” Eve scolded, “but no, I’m not. I can have Property show you around it if you like, measure it up, figure out where you’re going to put your furniture...”

“No!” Q vehemently interrupted. “Not my old furniture. Can’t you get decorators or whatever they are called in, to get some stuff? A place like that needs something more up-market. Actually, it needs Bond’s own furniture, it was probably expensive. If he wants to, of course. What if Bond doesn’t agree? What if he hates the whole idea? What if he hates _me_? What if he gets really annoyed at us making decisions for him? And where would he stay? The second bedroom?” Q knew he was babbling, but couldn’t stop himself.

Eve simply looked at him as he spluttered and eventually ran out of words. “I think, darling, that things on your side, at least, are confirmed. As for the others, yes, there’s budget to outfit the flat. I think Bond’s priorities for his furniture is the removability of bloodstains. As for the rest. Bond would do anything to get out of medical, and I’d imagine which bedroom he ends up in to begin with depends on you, him, and his treatment team.”

“Begin with?” Of everything she had just said, Q latched onto that part.

She gave him a hard look. “I’m told that getting into bed with a combat trained trauma survivor in the first few months can be rather lethal,” she said primly.

“That’s not what I meant!” Q sputtered. “What I meant was, do you really think he’d want to share a bed with me at some stage?”

“Why would he not? You both seemed to enjoy it before.”

“After what I told him?” Q grimaced. “If I were Bond, I would tell me to bugger off and shrivel up in a corner.”

“I think that Bond is a harder bastard than even we can imagine. Besides, he doesn’t seem to be exactly throwing you out of his hospital room.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Um, Q?” Eve broke the momentary silence. “Just to warn you, you might have a very sick cat tonight. Mr Turing’s finished the rest of the takeaway.”

Q glanced across at Mr Turing, who had jumped onto the coffee table, licking artificially coloured and flavoured sticky sauce off his whiskers.

Q groaned, while Eve hugged him in commiseration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All tags, ratings, characters and notes refer to the entirety of this fictional work, not to individual chapters.


	16. Maintenance of reserves

Miss Moneypenny wasn’t just crafty and cunning and far too clever for her own good (and would replace M one day, Q had no doubt), she was also lightning fast. Almost, Q mused, as if she’d planned everything from way before she’d talked to him, expecting his answer. Consequently, he was able to turn up in Bond’s room the following day, with a perfectly thought-out plan.

He wordlessly held his tablet out to Bond, all the information and images conveniently pulled up.

“What’s this?”

“My offer to you.”

Bond looked at him curiously, then back at the property pages. “You propose selling me an overpriced Kensington flat because you’ve decided that being MI6’s quartermaster wasn’t the right job for you, and you’ve become an estate agent?”

Q laughed. “Not quite. The flat was offered to me as a head of department, and as you can see, it’s big and rather upmarket.”

“That’s some understatement there,” Bond muttered.

“Exactly. Bearing in mind that you’re about to be released into MI6’s own medical care, my proposition to you is to join me in that new flat. MI6 and the hospital will provide outpatient care.” Better straight to the point than dither around. “You can’t go back to your own flat right now.”

“So you’ve decided to turn nurse?”

“Bullshit. I’m as little a nurse as you are a good patient.”

“Then why? None of what happened was your fault, you do know that, don’t you?”

Crap. Bond had done it again. Unerringly right into bull’s eye. “I know.”

“You’re still a bad liar,” Bond commented drily.

“Maybe, okay? But I’m not lying when I say that my proposition has nothing to do with guilt. It’s a big flat and there’s a second bedroom. I could take the master bedroom, which is enormous,” Q pointed to the floor plan displayed on the screen, “and turn part of it into a home office.”

Bond studied him carefully, while Q fought hard not to wilt under the scrutiny. It wouldn’t do for the agent to figure out that Q had been in love with him, but had only had that big revelation the previous day. He wasn’t ready to deal with that yet, maybe never.

“Alright,” Bond finally said.

“Just like that?”

“What do you want me to say? The thought of having to go to bloody medical makes me sick, and you are right, I can’t stay in my flat right now, not on my own. Besides, I never much cared for it. It’s as you say: a convenient solution.”

No, Q thought, he hadn’t said the word ‘convenient’.

“Good,” Q nodded, “I’ll get things in motion.”

* * * * *

The car stopped in Onslow Square, in front of a neat, tidy row of white-and-grey Georgian townhouses.

“At last.” Bond hadn’t been happy when he realised that Q would be the driver, worried about a serious lack of practice on the Quartermaster’s part. Right now he was exhausted, in pain, and consequently irritable.

“It was hardly a long drive,” Q replied breezily, stepping out, and stretching.

As if bidden, Mr Turing appeared on the front step, before regally making his way back inside through a cat door that had to be a lot more complicated than it seemed.

Bond remained seated, left hand laboriously trying to release the seat belt on the right. “Every minute of your driving feels like an eternity.”

Q pulled a face at him, then stepped behind the car to open the boot.

Bond was still fumbling with that damned safety belt, but as long as he was left alone to struggle with things until he finally got there, he was less irritated. He hated any well intended offers of help. Q was one of the few who got it and let him do things for himself, no matter how long it took.

Eventually he managed to free himself from the seat belt and tackled the task of climbing out. Not used yet to his upper body’s imbalance, nor to the sling, he bashed his useless arm against the car door frame. The resulting pain made his vision swim, forcing him to wait until it was over.

It took a ridiculous amount of energy to get out of the car, then even more to walk to the house, let alone slowly climb the steps. One after the other, forced to stop at each one to catch his breath. He felt worse than a ninety year old man.

This was utterly unacceptable. He was going to push the quacks into building his strength back up quicker than they intended.

He finally arrived in the front room, which was as spectacular with its bright spaciousness and elegantly modern interior design, as the photos had promised.

“This really doesn’t look anything like your last flat,” Bond stated, leaning heavily against the wall to catch his breath.

“Pretty much none of my furniture made it here, but you’ll find yours in your bedroom, and dotted around the flat.” Q made an expansive gesture. “My old stuff didn’t fit the upscale nature of this place.” He pulled a face. “Yours did, of course.”

Bond quirked a lopsided grin at him.

“Would you like to take a look around?” The moment Q asked, he regretted his stupid question. Bond looked like death warmed up after going through a blender.

“Not now,” came the expected reply. Bond slowly made his way to the sleek, black leather sofa. “I could do with a coffee, though. A proper one, not that dishwater from the hospital.”

“I’ve become your servant now, have I?” Q quipped, but was already in the kitchenette, resplendent like the rest of the place, with dark, polished wood appliances.

“Since you’re not my nurse, as you pointed out yourself, I figure that’s an acceptable alternative.”

Q grumbled something while fighting with the shiny Italian coffee machine. Eve really hadn’t spared any expenses in kitting out the flat.

Bond  sat with his eyes closed, but looked up when Q arrived with his victor’s spoils: a steaming cup of rich, dark coffee, which he took with thanks.

“I haven’t told you about the options I was offered by the surgeons,” Bond said as Q had settled down as well.

“They did?”

“Yes.” Bond took a first sip, humming in delight at the taste.

“What are those options?” Q prodded.

“The prognosis isn’t good to start with,” Bond stated neutrally, as if talking about someone else. “The nerves aren’t just torn, but obliterated into a pulp.”

“Did they use that expression?” Q couldn’t help but grin.

“Of course not, but I had no chance in hell to remember what they actually used. Terrible jargon slingers.”

Q nodded in sympathy.

“Anyway, the surgical option is to attempt reconstruction, but there’s only a small chance that nerve grafts will work. They won’t try nerve transfers, because there’s no real chance the distance will ever be recovered.” He looked at Q with a wry smile, “apparently I am too old. Something about the ‘restoration of functional strength decreases dramatically with patient age’.”

Q grimaced. “Are there non-surgical options?”

“Nothing than what’s already being done. Therapists here there and everywhere. They’ve also suggested fitting a shoulder brace.”

“And the pain?”

“Something about the nerve roots having been torn off, which robs the spinal cord of its nerve supply. With the result that those cells generate abnormal signals, which cause the pain. So,” Bond shrugged one-sided, “not much that can be done. Can’t tell those damned cells to shut up.”

“Painkillers,” Q concluded.

“Yes, if you look into the bag they packed for me, you’ll find a selection of antidepressants, anticonvulsants, and narcotics. If they think I am going to take all of that, they are very much mistaken.”

“But you should...”

“Says who?” Bond cut Q off. “They also gave me a TNS machine, they used it in hospital, and I’ll have a go. The last resort is a new surgery technique, which disrupts the abnormal signals, but I was told they wouldn’t be looking at that option until after it was decided if there’s any chance for nerve grafts working.” He drew in a breath, his lung capacity still not fully returned. “So, that’s it.”

Q nodded, pondering it all over, while Bond finished his coffee.

“Are you angry?” Q asked eventually.

Bond thought about the question, carefully considering his answer. “No. Frustrated, but not angry.”

“It’s just...you seem so eerily calm about it all.”

One corner of Bond’s mouth quirked up wryly. “Don’t mistake ‘accepting’ with ‘calm’. There’s nothing I can do about it, I can’t change what happened. What’s the point in being angry?”

“Is it that easy?”

“Easy?” Bond huffed, “acceptance is the hardest thing to acquire, but I’m already living on extra time. I never expected to live that long, I’ve cheated death so many times.”

“And this time you really did die.”

“Yes, I did.” Bond fell silent.

It wasn’t uncomfortable. Both of them drawn into their own thoughts.

“It’s funny,” Bond suddenly broke the silence, “I almost feel relieved.”

Q looked up.

“I don’t have to be perfect anymore.”

“But you can still win.”

“Every day.”

* * * * *

The first time Q woke up from sounds of distress coming out of the second bedroom, he had been expected it for a while. No one had needed to tell him that Bond would have nightmares, but dealing with them wouldn’t be easy when it came to a highly trained killer.

Grabbing his glasses, he switched on the light and rolled out of bed, hurrying to Bond’s room. The door was closed, but politeness could come later. Thankful the door was never locked, he stopped in the open doorway, calling out.

“James! Wake up, James. It’s a nightmare. You’re in England.” Always that word; the mistress Bond had loved and hated more than any others, the one he’d never betray and who would never betray him in return. “James!” Q continued to shout Bond’s first name, until the man woke up with a violent start and a pained gasp at the movement.

The light from the hallway illuminated a path towards the bed.

“Bond?” Still safely at a distance, Q tried again.

“Q,” came the croaked reply. Disoriented, but awake.

“Do you need anything? Glass of water?”

Q took the grunted reply as a yes, and quickly went to fetch a glass. When he returned and stepped into the room, he noticed that the curtains were open, allowing a little light inside. Of course. Bond couldn’t stand absolute darkness anymore. He’d been an idiot, he should have thought about that.

“You alright?” Q asked as he handed Bond the water, who’d sat up in the meantime.

“No.”

Q was taken aback at the rare honesty.

Bond drank half of the water. “But I will be.”

Q offered a small smile, and after standing awkwardly in the room for a moment longer, he bid goodnight and retreated back to his own bed.

He didn’t sleep, though, went to work instead on a blueprint for a sensor activated night light that reacted automatically to the surrounding level of lighting.

* * * * *

The following day, Q found Bond sitting quietly on the sofa. With his eyes closed, he could have been sleeping, but Q knew from his breathing, that while he was undoubtedly bone weary and exhausted from the physio, he was more or less awake.

And since when had he become so attuned to Bond’s breathing pattern that he could not only tell if the man was awake or asleep, but also pretty accurately guess in what kind of physical state he was in.

“Why.” Bond suddenly asked quietly.

Q stopped typing on his laptop and looked at Bond, whose eyes remained closed. “Please do elaborate. I’m not a mind reader, at least not yet.”

But he was, wasn’t he? He’d been waiting for the ‘why’ for some time now.

“Why am I here and not in medical or in the convalescent home.”

“Because you would have gone crazy. Well, crazier than you already are.”

There, that part of the answer was easy, but Q knew it wasn’t what Bond had actually asked.

“Why am I here with _you_.” Bond opened his eyes, and the sudden piercing blue had the same breath-stealing effect on him, as it had always had. “I know it’s not pity, because if it were I would have refused to come here.” Bond’s voice was neutral. No accusation, if anything a mild curiosity, as if he couldn’t quite decipher Q and his actions.

Q guessed that was rather true, he hadn’t managed to decrypt himself either. “You’re right, it’s not pity.” He carefully shut the laptop, and deliberately put it aside, before leaning back to fully focus on Bond. This was going to be a delicate operation of major importance. He had to get it right.

“First off, I don’t fully know.” Holding his hand up immediately to stop Bond from interjecting. “Let me finish, please. This will take a while.”

When Bond nodded, Q continued.

“It’s definitely selfish.”

Bond’s brows rose, but he didn’t say anything.

“I like having you around.” He couldn’t tell him the truth, too worried Bond would scarper.

“Really? A miserable, grumpy cripple who’s putting a strain on your time?”

Q frowned. “If you call yourself a cripple again I will shoot you myself.”

Bond shrugged one-shouldered, completely unaffected by the threat.

“You’re only really grumpy and miserable when you’re exhausted. I don’t blame you for that.”

“I didn’t realise you’d become a saint.” Bond flashed a sharp grin.

“Very funny,” Q groused, “and I can very much assure you that I am not and never will be.”

“Why, then?”

Q sighed. “I can’t help finding you fascinating.”

Bond shook his head with a huff. “That’s _my_ line.”

“Well, seems like we could form a mutual appreciation society.”

“You threw me out.”

“No,” Q chose his words carefully, “please note that I did not throw you out. I was an arse and accused you of some rather nasty things, such as using me for practice. There’s a major difference.”

“Not to me it wasn’t.”

Q nodded slowly. “I understand that now, and I also understand that I was completely off the mark and unfair to you.”

“Were you?” Bond asked quietly.

“Yes, I was.” Q replied just as quietly. He let the words hang in the air for a while. Slowly working his own thoughts around them, finally settling on the most dangerous path to tread. Bond deserved the truth.

“I read your classified file.”

“What?” Tension slammed into Bond.

 “I wanted to figure out why you were pursuing me.”

“Did you find the answer?”

“Some of it, I think.”

Bond’s silent glare challenged Q to elaborate.

“There were three women of importance in your adult life.”

“Q...” Bond warned.

“I’m sorry, but this is important.”

“It’s not about me, it’s about you and your reasons.”

“This is where you are wrong, I’m afraid. You can’t understand the one without the other.”

“Fine,” Bond acquiesced, “go on.”

“I figured, perhaps you were pursuing me _because_ I wasn’t a woman, and not despite of.”

Bond tilted his head, but didn’t say anything.

“But then there you were. So overwhelmingly _you_.” Q trailed off. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find the words. If he wasn’t able to explain Bond’s inexorable attraction to himself, how could he to the other.

In the end he shrugged helplessly.

“I fell for you, but I didn’t want to realise it.”

“Is this why I’m here?” Bond asked, his voice remarkably gentle.

Q only replied with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is their flat in South Kensington:  
> http://www.foxtons.co.uk/search?location_ids=129&property_id=827593&search_form=map&search_type=SS&sold=1&submit_type=search


	17. Operational mobility

His damned bladder had woken him, and despite wanting to stay in bed and ignore the demands of his body, Q was forced to get up. Eyes half-closed, without his glasses, and more asleep than awake, he stumbled blindly through to the en-suite bathroom. His brain slowly caught onto something being different, while he emptied his bladder. There’d been light on in the living room, hadn’t there?

He washed his hands and splashed water into his face. His vision was still blurry, but at least he had woken up. He didn’t sense danger, the likelihood anyone had sneaked past the security systems - and Bond, his mind helpfully supplied - was to all accounts impossible. So he went back to the bedroom to grab his glasses, then on to investigate the light source.

His bare feet hardly made a sound on the hardwood flooring, and he found Bond sitting on the leather couch, overfilled whisky glass in hand.

Bond didn’t acknowledge Q in his pyjamas beyond a brief glance, before emptying the glass in one go. A bad night then, with the corroborating evidence that Mr Turing was still in Q’s room, and not investigating the situation like he usually did.

Q raised his brows at the almost-empty bottle of sixteen year old Tomintoul on the table, but didn’t make a move to stop Bond when he leaned forward, placed the glass onto the table, then proceeded to awkwardly pour with his left hand the rest of the whisky into the tumbler.

He merely sat down on the angled sofa, tucked his legs under him and watched Bond pickle his liver. They were both rather good at silence.

Bond eventually broke it. “Go back to bed, Q. You need your beauty sleep.” His voice sounded rough. Not slurred, but strained.

“Says the man who is twelve years older than I am.”

Bond lifted one corner of his mouth in a wry smirk. “Exactly, catching up on beauty sleep is too late for me.”

“That’s why you’re sitting in the living room in the middle of the night, trying to get drunk?”

“If I tried that, I would have succeeded by now.” Contrary to his words he took another large gulp.

Q studied Bond’s face. The lines appeared more pronounced, expression tense, jaw set, and his eyes slightly narrowed. Ah, that was it, then. It all made sense.

“You’re in pain,” he stated.

“No shit, Sherlock.”

The coarse reply startled Q, Bond hardly ever swore.

“Nerve pain,” Q decided.

Bond just drank the last of the whisky.

“Have you taken the Tramadol?”

Bond glared at him.

“You haven’t,” Q sighed. “You’re an idiot, do you know that? Tramadol is a painkiller specifically prescribed for nerve pain. You are supposed to take three a day.”

“I know that,” Bond growled.

“Then why don’t you take them?”

Bond didn’t answer. He probably would have shrugged, Q figured, if he wasn’t in too much pain to do so. He had read up on what the consultant had told Bond, and knew that the phantom nerve pain would be debilitating. But Bond had never complained, thus Q had made the assumption that he didn’t suffer severely from it. He really should have learned by now not to make such assumptions. Bond and his martyr complex were legendary, after all.

“You prefer to try and dull the pain with alcohol, is that it?”

Bond stared blankly at him.

“And taking the prescribed medications means you’re not supposed to drink alcohol, plus it’s prescribed medication, and that is apparently in your own personal completely _crazy_ world, the devil’s worst nightmare.” Q was quickly getting riled up. “I bet you haven’t even taken the gabapentin the consultant wanted you to stay on. Do you think you’re less of a hard guy if you take medication for something that’s a chronic condition?”

“Fuck you,” Bond snarled.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Shut up, Q.”

“Are you taking a painkiller now?” Q was fairly sure he could ask that question despite Bond’s alcohol intake. He knew the man too well to believe he was going to agree. “There’s an interesting choice in the kitchen cupboard, from ibuprofen and paracetamol to naproxen, codeine and even oxycodone for when it is as bad as it seems to be tonight.” Damn, when had he turned into a pharmacist?

“No.”

“In that case, don’t expect any of your beloved gadgets to work this week.” Q stood up, too agitated for his own good. Why the hell was it so hard to try and get through to that stubborn bastard?

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would, and I will.” Q turned. “Good night, Bond.” Leaving the man to stew in his misery.

Not that he would get any sleep for the rest of the night, either.

* * * * *

As he’d expected, Q had barely managed to doze off a few times during the night. When his alarm went off, he cursed everything under the grey London sky, and most of all Bond’s stubbornness. He really was going to follow through with his threat.

There was no sign of Bond anywhere in the flat, with his door shut and no sound coming from his room. Q was still annoyed with the man – and, if he was honest with himself for trying the impossible.

He stalked into the living room to get to the kitchenette, where he promptly stopped dead at the sight of the dining table.

It had been laid out for breakfast for one person. Cereal bowl on a plate, spoon and napkin beside it, with the china mug Q used at home placed on a saucer. His favourite morning cereal sat in its box on the table. Glancing towards the kitchen counter he saw the tea pot and tea jar next to the kettle, ready for action.

As he stepped closer, he found a piece of paper placed in the bowl. It only had two words on it, written in a laboured scrawl that looked like a six year old’s. He knew Bond was struggling to learn handwriting with his left and that he hated anyone seeing the results. Q swallowed, suddenly choked up, when he picked up the piece of paper which must have cost the man a great deal of pride.

‘I’ll try’, it said.

It looked like Bond’s gadgets were going to work, after all.

* * * * *

Most mornings after that, Bond got up just before Q, and they had breakfast together. It was bizarrely domestic and, if Q was honest with himself, awfully nice to sit at the table with Bond opposite. Both quiet, Q checking the news feed on his tablet while drinking tea, and Bond reading an old fashioned printed newspaper while drinking coffee - and taking his medication, Q noted. Not that he was keeping track or checking on the man, of course not. He just couldn’t help noticing things, especially things that were of importance to him.

Q sometimes worked from home, ensconced in his office cum master bedroom, while Bond went through a punishing regime of varying physio, medical, fitness, weight training, motor skills, massage, nerve stimulation, and back to physio again. Some at home, with the physio making house calls (who Q liked, because she took absolutely no shit from Bond) and most of the other appointments either at MI6 or as an outpatient at the hospital.

Bond never relented, never complained, and never stopped. He threw himself into the regime over the next weeks, like he’d tackled everything else in his life.

This didn’t stop the bouts of crippling pain, but most of the time they were more manageable. Except for some nights, when Bond would sit in the living room again, not wanting to lie in his bed as the opiates dulled the protest of mutilated nerves. He hated the side effects and never took any of the strongest pain relief during the day, but he’d accepted that drinking himself into a stupor didn’t work any better.

* * * * *

During one of those nights Q woke again, this time from a false alert on his phone that meant very little except for causing him to wake up and be annoyed at the impossible hour.

He noticed the low light from the living room, and he had a fair idea who he would find there.

Making sure his bare feet would be sufficiently audible, in case Bond wasn’t fully alert, he walked into the room. The back of the sofa faced him, and with it the back of a blond, short-cropped head.

“Bad again?” he asked softly as he stepped closer.

Bond didn’t turn around. “Still fond of stating the obvious?”

Q huffed. “Still being contrary?”

That got him a wry laugh in return. “Always.”

Comfortable silence settled once more. Q stood right behind Bond, who was trying to massage his right shoulder.

“Let me.” Q offered, his hand hovering.

Receiving the merest nod in reply, he began to slowly and carefully massage the mutilated shoulder through the t-shirt Bond was wearing. He had no idea what he was doing, but figured that Bond would tell him to stop if he was doing a pig’s ear of this. His second hand soon joined the first, and encouraged by a deep groan and the way Bond let his head drop a little to the left, Q applied more pressure. Long fingers digging into thick scars and deeply maimed muscle tissue, he found a rhythm that was soothing to himself as well. As if the physical contact, the warm skin and bone, muscle and scarred flesh under his hands were what he had been missing without knowing.

He let his hands knead and stroke for a long time, until Bond opened his eyes and craned his head, fixing him with his blue gaze. There were unspoken questions in there, Q thought, or maybe he just wanted to interpret the look that way. Whatever it was, it encouraged him to walk around to the front of the couch, hand never breaking contact with Bond’s shoulder.

Neither of them said anything when Q lowered himself to the floor, and nudged Bond’s knees apart, never breaking their gaze. A fitting mirror, he thought, to how it had all begun, only with roles reversed. He let his hands stroke up Bond’s bare thighs, relishing the feel of warm skin beneath his hands, and the firmness of regained strong muscles.

He was about to lower the boxer-shorts’ waistband, when Bond’s left hand carded into his hair, giving a gentle pull.

“Bond?”

“James, please.”

For the first time ever, the request didn’t sound corny.

“James.” Q nodded and smiled. “Do you want me to stop?”

“I want you to kiss me.”

No hesitation, not anymore. Q finally knew what he wanted. When he straddled James’ lap and leaned in for the kiss, it was far more than lust, that flared bright and warm. This time, he acknowledged his feelings.

It felt different, touching James and being touched. With the same knowledge of each other’s bodies they had developed over months, but without the practiced perfection. For one, James’s movements were different and new, unpractised with only one arm, but it wasn’t just the physicality that had changed. This felt like intimacy, and so much more than mere sex.

The kiss was deep, James’ hand entangled in the wild mop of Q’s hair. Q laughed breathlessly when his glasses got knocked off, giddy with what he was finally getting, and James grinned at him. Wide and open and warm and wanting, and oh so beautiful.

Q was soon rutting against James’ crotch, but the angle was awkward and James let out a pained grunt, when Q forgot himself and bashed against his shoulder.

“Bed,” James gasped out.

“Which one?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Q quickly made a decision, one which went beyond getting off James’ lap and tugging him up and into the master bedroom, but he’d tell him later.

Much later.

* * * * *

Waking up with James in his bed was so much better than ever before. This time, he knew where he stood; and this time, James had no intention to leave. If the way he had thrown a leg across Q’s was anything to go by, he had no intention to let Q leave, either. So this was what he’d wanted back then, but he’d been too stupid, or blind, or inexperienced, or frightened, or cowardly, or goodness what else to figure it out.

“Stop thinking,” James’ rumble pulled him out of his thoughts.

“I wasn’t.”

“Liar.”

Q chuckled. “Since when is mind reading one of your abilities?”

“Since I live with someone who thinks so loudly that it’s deafening.”

“Bollocks.” Q groused gently. Far too comfortable in the cocoon of warmth. He was about to slips back into snooze, when James spoke again.

“We need a bigger bed.”

“Huh?”

“I said, we need a bigger bed. If you think I am going to play a game of ‘whose bedroom is it anyway’ from now on, you are very much mistaken.”

Q lay there, eyes closed, and grinning like a fool. Trust James to cut the crap and get straight to the point.

“I’ll turn your bedroom into my office.” Q decided.

“Fine.” James yawned, then pulled Q closer. “I’ll buy our bed, and I sleep on the left.”

Q’s grin threatened to split his face. “Fine.”

And that was that.

* * * * *

A few days later, after the flat had been re-arranged with professional help, Q peeked into the walk-in closet where James was dressing. He was holding out his hand.

“What’s that?” James studied the small contraption that looked like it would fit the shape of his splint perfectly.

“For you, try.”

James came closer and offered his arm, letting Q buckle the contraption to the splint. “Temporary, just to see if it fits,” Q muttered.

“Tap your middle finger.” Q directed, looking at the device more than James, who obeyed, concentrating on the minuscule movement he managed to send through his damaged nerves. He started when a razor-sharp blade shot out of a hidden crevice.

“A bit too fast,” Q mused, and looked behind James, as if pondering something. James turned to see Mr Turing on the table by the French doors that lead to the garden. Sprawled on top of a pile of warm electronic equipment, idly flicking his claws in and out, one by one. “That’s who I got the idea from,” Q smirked.

“You are turning me into your cat?” James’ brows shot up. “If you start scratching me behind my ear and tickling beneath my chin I _will_ smack you with my left.”

Q chuckled and flicked a finger under James’ chin, before unbuckling the device. “Just a few adjustments, but it should be handy for cutting your food with. Also if you’re in a tight spot when you run into trouble. Which you will, I have no doubt.”

James mimicked a purr. “It’s rather impressive. Are you planning anything for the ring finger?” He was able to send the barest of signals to those two fingers. “A poisonous dart, perhaps?” His hopeful grin would have been boyish in a less weathered face. It was still damn charming, though.

“I thought to have a few different ones, swap them in and out,” Q sounded perfectly serious.

“You really are a genius,” James smiled, “first the customised tablet, then the sensor-lights, and now a splint-weapon. Whatever are you going to think of next?”

Q returned the smile. “Exploding pen?” he teased.

“Be still, my heart!” James clutched his chest in an overly dramatic gesture. “Should I really see the day?”

Q snorted. “What heart?”

“The shrivelled and blackened prune that resides in my chest.”

Q cast a glance heavenward. “Now come on, we’re supposed to be in the office this morning.”

James checked the position of the shoulder brace, then grabbed his jacket and the high-tech sling.

“Think you can design a weapon for the brace?” he asked as they exited the walk-in closet.

Q sucked in a breath, considering. “Probably,” he said, “though I’d have to think about the release mechanism. The one on the splint probably won’t work for that.”

“Or perhaps it could double as a gun holster somehow?”

Q tilted his head, and looked at Bond critically. “I’ll have to do some calculations on the angles,” he mused.

“You can calculate my angles as much as you like.” James cast a ridiculous leer at Q, who groaned at the awful line.

James stopped in the doorway, allowing Q to help him into the suit jacket (he had eventually learned to accept help if it simply sped up proceedings), letting the door fall shut behind them.

As the door’s numerous security measures secured themselves, Mr Turing got up from his warm spot on the electronics. He stretched, leapt off the table and padded towards the open closet door. Entering the small room, he jumped up onto the shelf that contained Bond’s neatly folded cashmere sweaters, made himself a cosy nest from several of the softest garments, and settled down for a nice, leisurely nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All tags, ratings, characters and notes refer to the entirety of this fictional work, not to individual chapters.


	18. Multiple Axis of Movement

James decided very soon after the most recent major medical consultation, that an attempt at reconstructive surgery, consisting of nerve grafts and muscle tissue replacement, had such a small chance of being successful, that he was not going to try. He preferred facts, and chose to adapt to having only the use of one arm, rather than being in and out of hospital, pre-and post-operational care - and ultimately uselessness - for the foreseeable future.

He opted for the pain management surgery, which would disrupt the abnormal signals generated in the nerveless cells of his spine, to reduce the constant burning, crushing pain he was in.

He didn’t stay in hospital long after the successful surgery. The nerve pain had been greatly reduced, improving the quality of his life by more than he let on. As little as he had complained about the debilitating pain before, he didn’t make a big deal about its reduction.

Only Q knew, because the daily medication petered out to nothing, with only the occasional use of painkillers, if and when necessary. There were no more sleepless night either, where he found James sitting in the living room, but that didn’t keep him from straddling James’ lap and massaging his shoulder, nor did it keep James from kissing him senseless in return.

* * * * *

“I was thinking about modifying a car for you.”

“What’s wrong with my last one?”

Q huffed, “you mean the one that was property of MI6 and which you crashed spectacularly in pursuit of a target?”

“Yes, sorry I forgot.” James smirked, then busied himself with manipulating the finger joints of his right hand. He continued to be fastidious about keeping his joints supple.

“It would have to be an automatic.”

James frowned. “I hate automatics. They are cars for kids.”

Q leaned across to poke one muscled thigh with the pen he was working on. “Or pensioners.”

“Brat.”

Q laughed.

They fell silent once more. James concentrated on his right hand, manipulating the wrist in all directions, then working to get the two fingers he had any control over to twitch perceptibly so he could feel the movement against his palm. Q had moved from tinkering with the half-finished pen (sadly not exploding) to using it to fill in a few lines of The Times’ cross-word puzzle.

“If it doesn’t come in automatic from the factory, could it be retrofitted?” James asked all of a sudden.

“Why, do you have a model in mind?”

James hummed, pulled his tablet close and swiftly typed in a few commands, soon finding what he was looking for. Turning it around to face Q, it showed a high definition image of an impressive cabriolet sports car. “This year’s Jaguar XKR-S Convertible.”

Q gaped at it. “It’s...certainly not subtle, and definitely not cheap.”

James smirked. “About a hundred-thousand. Think you could do something with it?”

“I should have known you’d go for a classic British make,” Q muttered. “What’s wrong with a superbly engineered German make? Audi? BMW? Mercedes?” He huffed exaggeratedly. “Just glad you didn’t try to convince me you needed an Aston Martin. SIS isn’t paying for such an extravagance anymore, you know that.”

“And you know that right now you sound like an old fuddy-duddy, telling off his kid - who happens to be _twelve years older than you_ \- to be sensible.”

“Bull’s eye,” Q grinned. “But why not. It’ll be fun to put in some extras such as accommodating one-handed steering and voice control activation for most functions.”

“I can’t wait.”

“You need to buy it first.”

James stood up so quickly, Q almost let the pen drop.

“What are you waiting for?” James grinned right into Q’s surprised face. “Let’s go buy a luxury car.”

* * * * *

The next time Bond passed the central screens in the bunker, he actually stopped to look at the events unfolding overhead. Standing in the back of a group of people, it took him barely a minute before he noticed a mistake.

“He should have gone up the stairs.” Bond’s voice surprised everyone. He had appeared behind them without anyone noticing.

“Pardon?” M glanced back and at him.

“Here,” Bond stepped closer and reached out to point with his left to an area on the screen. “It’s obvious the target would move across to there.” Pointing to another quadrant. “The agent isn’t thinking three-dimensionally.”

“And how did you figure that out?”

“It’s obvious,” Bond huffed. “Anyone with experience and gut instinct can see that.”

M hummed, “I see,” he said thoughtfully, then picked up his phone and speed-dialled internally. “Miss Moneypenny? Cancel any meetings that are not a matter of life-and-death, or have to do with the budget, and keep the slots free. I want a meeting with you.”

Bond looked mildly confused, before he decided it wasn’t of his concern, and went on his way.

* * * * *

M called Bond in for a meeting the next day. The moment they were seated, he went straight to the heart of the matter.

“I have a proposition for you.”

“Sir?” Bond didn’t bother to hide his surprise.

“I want you to accompany junior agents into the field and show them the ropes.”

“Babysitting?” Bond’s eyes narrowed. “No way, Sir.”

“I knew you’d react like that.” M sighed, “and that’s not what I am asking you to do. I want you to evaluate them, use your invaluable knowledge and many years of experience as double-O to evaluate their suitability for field agent duty and potential double-O status.”

“I don’t quite understand. My unorthodox methods hardly ever pleased you.”

“It’s those unorthodox methods that brought the results.” M quickly added, “not that I am giving you carte blanche to teach those unorthodox methods to impressionable junior agents, but I want them to think outside of the box, and you are the best we have to show them how.”

“I am hardly inconspicuous, Sir.” Bond patted his right arm in its sling.

“An additional challenge for you,” M replied unperturbed, “and bonus points for any of the youngsters who think of it.”

Bond pondered this for a moment. “How long do I have to make a decision?”

“Tomorrow.” At Bond’s raised brows, M continued. “No time like the present, right?”

If Bond bought that, he certainly didn’t look like it, but he nodded. “You’ll have my answer by tomorrow.” He was ready to leave.

“Oh, and Commander Bond?”

The agent stopped at the door, somewhat taken aback by the old address, but it was his again. He was no longer a double-O, but he was still a Naval commander. “Sir?”

“There will be a series of tests and evaluations, to see if you are ready for the field in your new position.”

To Bond’s initial surprise, there was a twinkle of amusement on Mallory’s face, but then he understood the reason. His scores had been excellent the last time he tested himself, and he was sure the director knew. It was the rest of MI6 that appeared less than convinced to send a crippled ex-double-O back out.

“With pleasure, Sir.” With a smirk of his own, Bond left.

* * * * *

As M had assumed, Q had predicted, and Bond had known, the tests were going extremely well. The evaluation panel consisted of representatives from several departments, plus the usual senior group of M himself, Moneypenny and Tanner – and of course Q, who wouldn’t miss for the world being witness to James’ annihilation of any preconceived ideas of his abilities. After all, he’d been a witness of his progress for months.

Bond passed the psych eval with flying colours (the psychologist babbled something about his borderline psycho-and sociopathic personality traits having been diminished by his partner’s positive influence, and wasn’t the fact he had a ‘partner’ the strangest thing to start with).

He astonished in close combat, doing remarkably well for a one-armed man. While he might never beat anyone determined enough again, he was an unpredictable force to be reckoned with. Contrary to the psychiatrist’s statement about a more mentally balanced Bond, Q was convinced the reason James did so well with fist and knife relied on him being a sneaky bastard who used every possible weakness in his opponent. Most importantly, they didn’t expect his movements and actions, which were different due to his handicap.

His fitness levels were markedly higher than they had been after Skyfall, and while the score sheets required adaptation for the fact he simply couldn’t do some things any longer, he was clearly fitter than anyone close to his own age.

The shooting range left the panel of evaluators stunned, and Q ridiculously proud of James. His display of one-handed skill was breath-taking, no small thanks (in addition to his own dogged determination and endless training hours) to the subtle adjustments Q had made to his palm-printed gun, now tailored for his left.

The piece de resistance turned out to be the test on the driving range. Using his modified Jaguar, Bond put on a show that left those evaluators speechless, who were less used to the infamous ex-007’s reckless driving skills. When he stopped after the display, casually sauntering towards the group, one instructor (not one of his staff, Q noted with relief) made the mistake of piping up.

“That’s quite an impressive display, Commander Bond, but you were using a specially modified vehicle, which has been adapted to your disability. What happens if you are forced to drive a normal car?”

Silence fell over the rest of the group. A word had been used that no one dared utter in Bond’s presence: disability was not a concept the agent accepted. He worked out solutions, trained exceptionally hard to adapt, and what could have made him dis-abled had made him different-abled.

Q sucked in a breath, exchanged a worried glance with Eve, but Bond didn’t lose his temper. He merely smiled a shark-like smile, and if Q didn’t know him so well, he would have fallen for the seemingly unthreatening response. As it was, he was perfectly, and worryingly aware that James was never as dangerous as when he appeared calm.

“Good point. Let me allay your fears.” Bond held out his left to the man, palm up.

The instructor just boggled at the hand, not understanding.

“Your car keys, please.” Bond wiggled his fingers impatiently. “To make sure you are satisfied with the vehicle not being modified to accommodate my _disability_ in any way.”

Q’s eyes widened, looking at Eve again, who just shrugged and smiled. They both watched the man obediently place his car keys into James’ waiting hand.

“Bond…” M warned quietly, but he was ignored.

“Give me a minute,” James said instead, then jogged in a leisurely pace back to the parked cars.

A short while later, the sound of an engine revving, then screeching tyres, cut through the hushed anticipation that had fallen over the group. The instructor’s car raced towards them, Bond at the wheel. Everyone scattered in panic except the core group of people used to James’ stunts. Bond proceeded to push the vehicle through every manoeuvre the vehicle had never been intended for, while the unfortunate owner was cursing in panic while sweating buckets. He obviously believed this was the end of his expensive car. When Bond finally reversed at high speed, only to make a handbrake turn at the last moment and come to a screeching halt, the owner stumbled backwards so quickly, he fell over.

Bond got out of the car, adjusted his sleeve, then held his hand out to the man on the ground. “Satisfied?” he asked with a smug expression, as he helped the instructor up.

“Y…yes,” the man stammered.

“Good. I left your keys in the ignition.” With that Bond turned to face the rest of the group.

M sighed, Tanner grinned, and Eve was sniggering with glee. Q, on the other hand, had adopted his expression of long-sufferance.

“Happy now that you’ve proven your manhood is still intact after your little display of mine’s-bigger-than-yours?” Q asked.

To everyone’s surprise, Bond just laughed.

* * * * *

The visit to his favourite Savile Row tailor had been long overdue. When he stepped into the familiar premises, James inhaled the comforting scent of fine cloth and understated eau de cologne. It had never changed, and he was thankful for this haven.

The proprietor soon arrived from the workshops at the back of the shop, stopped mid-stride, and smiled warmly with open arms. “James! What a pleasure to see you.” His gaze dropped to the arm in its sling, but instead of commenting, he embraced Bond and kissed each cheek in their customary greeting.

“Good to see you too, David, it has been far too long.”

“Have you not been visiting me because you managed not to destroy your suits as quickly as usual?” The tailor smiled as he led Bond to a comfortable, classically shaped leather sofa.

“I had a bit of a lull,” Bond smiled at the euphemism.

They sat down after David pulled the sample book from the counter. “You aren’t going to answer me if I ask you how you got injured, are you?”

“In the line of duty,” James replied with the standard answer he’d given his tailor over the last twenty-odd years.

“Of course, my dear friend and favourite customer, of course.” David patted Bond’s knee in a paternal fashion.

“I’m your favourite customer now, am I?”

“You always have been. No one wears my suits like you do. You turn them into a piece of art.”

“Not any longer,” James said ruefully.

“Why ever not?”

“This is not going to go away,” he indicated the sling. “The damage is permanent. I’m afraid your favourite customer has turned sour.”

“Nonsense! I am an artist with cloth and needle. This is a mere challenge, not an obstacle.” David opened up the sample book and placed it onto James’ lap. “I will make you look as immaculate as you always have. A little clever cutting here, a little secret padding there, and your appearance will be perfectly balanced.”

“I seem to be surrounded by geniuses.”

“While I don’t know who the other geniuses are, I’m certainly flattered. Now, let us get started.” David tapped his fingertip on a sample of exquisite cashmere-silk mix in a stunning steel blue. “This, my friend, will look magnificent on you.”

Bond smiled. “Whatever you say.”

* * * * *

The first ‘baby’ that Bond accompanied was a young man, mediocre in everything. He’d obviously read every single report and manual religiously, and followed procedure without deviation, or imagination.

The mission was as boring and devoid of entertainment as the new agent was, and Bond found himself reduced to amusing himself by concocting increasingly ridiculous measurements for the agent’s competence. That, and annoying Q with his comments, trying to get as much laughter out of his Quartermaster as he possibly could.

* * * * *

Even the debriefing after the first evaluation was as boring as the mission itself had been, until M suddenly shouted: “What is that blasted cat doing there? And how did he get in?”

Bond and Q turned to see Mr Turing, sitting on M’s coffee table, eyes fixated on a bowl of goldfish on M’s bookshelf. The cat was wearing a curious-looking black vest.

“He’s not a cat, he’s a tester,” Q replied loftily. “And he’s trialling a new electromagnetic material that’s just come in. Opens doorknobs without touching them.”

M grunted, before shouting at the cat, “get away from there.”

Mr Turing stayed watching the fish for a few more seconds, just enough to emphasise that he was ignoring the director of  MI6, before he turned around and darted behind M’s desk. There was a sound of thumping, a squeal, and frantic squeaking, before Mr Turing emerged triumphantly with a writhing mass of dark fur in his jaws, by size a large mouse or small rat. He proceeded to carry it to M’s antique silk rug, where he ate his snack with evident enjoyment, and the sound of squelching organs and crunching cartilage.

M’s outrage surpassed even the most impressive dressing down of wayward agents.

It caused Bond to murmur close to Q’s ear, “I never thought I’d see the day I actually liked that cat for something he does.”

Q laughed, then forced down his mirth. “If only we could deal with the other type of rats in MI6 like that.”

“Get that cat and its bloody lunch off my rug!” M roared.

Mr Turing looked up, swallowed the last bit of his prey, and then proceeded to walk over to M. He deposited the long tail right on the apoplectic M’s shoe, before grandly exiting the room – demonstrating how the new material worked by jumping up onto the hat stand near the door, near enough to the doorknob for it to move, before lightly springing down onto the opposite side. 

As the door closed, they could hear Moneypenny exclaim: “I swear, can you _hear_ someone opening a pack of sushi?”

Q plastered the most innocent look onto his face that he could muster, while Bond had blank down to perfection.

M sighed and slumped into his chair. “Get someone to clean up this mess, and I suggest either of you won’t come into my vicinity for the rest of the day.”

“Of course, Sir,” they answered almost in unison, before slipping out of the door.


	19. Flanking manoeuvre

Bond was sitting in the comfortable leather chair Q had recently installed in his office, and which he called the visitor’s chair - while everyone else had dubbed it _Bond’s_ chair - deftly tapping away on the tablet that Q had been constantly perfecting. He’d become adept at using it, typing with his left hand almost as fast as he had done with both. He was constantly on it, because he’d never mastered writing as elegantly with his left as he had with his right, no matter how hard he practiced. He’d eventually given up.

Q was looking over his shoulder. “Is this what I think it is?”

“That depends on what you think it is,” Bond replied, tapping a few more little boxes on the screen.

Q rolled his eyes with a huff. Unperturbed that he’d probably never grow out of that adolescent habit. “I think that’s a score sheet.”

“In that case, you are absolutely right.”

“Let me rephrase that: it’s a score sheet, and it’s paperwork. Paperwork no one told you to fill in. Paperwork you came up with yourself. Paperwork that you are filling in _voluntarily_.”

Bond simply smirked.

“With glee, I hasten to add.” Q poked at the tablet screen. “What has the world come to?”

“Perhaps MI6 should have given me a high spec, customised, tailored-only-to-me tablet for my ‘paperwork’ a long time ago.”

“Bullshit.” Q made a face. “You simply enjoy scoring those hapless junior agents far too much.”

“That could be it,” Bond grinned.

“Let me have a look, then.” Q reached for the tablet which was dutifully put into his hand.

Skimming down the list of categories, he started to grin. Neatly tabled were: research, preparation, analysis, logistics, planning, execution, outcome. Under ‘other’ were the sub categories of adaptability, improvisation, agility, fitness, acting skills and finally grooming.

“Very thorough, Commander Bond,” Q chuckled as he handed the tablet back. “Would you like me to write a quick programme that lets you choose a rating semi-automatically?”

“If you could, please.” James did the well-behaved agent very well if he wanted to.

“Leave it to me.”

Instead of a reply James leant close and placed a kiss on Q’s cheek, who only spluttered mildly at the indignity of the unprofessional display.

James, the bastard, was laughing as he left.

* * * * *

The agent was small, blonde, and as far as Bond could see, looked about eighteen. They really were making them younger and younger these days.

M cleared his throat. “Miss Beauchamp, this is Commander Bond. He’ll be your evaluator on your task.”

She stood up, her head roughly at the vicinity of Bond’s chest, holding out her _left_ hand. “Lucy, pleased to meet you, Sir.”

He looked down at the proffered hand before shaking it. She had a firm grip for such a wee lass. “You’re left handed?”

She blinked. “No, oh, no I’m not. But, um, sorry, I thought you must have hurt your right arm, it’s in a sling.”

“Well spotted.” In his mind, he was already giving her good marks for perception. “The damage is permanent,” he looked at her intently, “this is one of the many risks of being a field agent, Miss Beauchamp. Never forget that.”

She nodded solemnly.

They received the details of their simple mission: to gather more intel about large sums of money being siphoned out of China by corrupt officials. Money that had ended up in the British property market via the Hong Kong branches of a number of British banks. The scheme not only had the potential for disrupting the market, but also a great deal of embarrassment for Britain.

As Beauchamp left M’s office with Bond, she shot a glance at him, sideways, hesitantly. “I was thinking…well…”

“Beauchamp, you won’t get anywhere in this job if you’re going to be worried about offending people.”

“I was thinking, usually, when agents go out in male-female pairs, they’re a couple, but I think, with us, that would get too much attention. Either they’d think I was a gold-digger or you were a sleazy old man.”

She darted a wary look at Bond, surprised at his amused reaction. “True enough,” Bond agreed, “what have you got in mind, then?”

“I was thinking, maybe, I could be your daughter – from a really early relationship, of course,” she added hastily. “You and my mother split up when I was young, maybe you ran off with your secretary.” She paused. “No, all wrong. I wouldn’t spend such a long trip with you if you’d run off, no matter how nice the trip. No, _she_ left _us_ , and you had no idea what to do with me, so you threw yourself back into work, and packed me off to boarding school. We don’t know each other all that well, and now I’m at University. At your old college at Cambridge maybe, and you’ve decided it’s time for some time together.”

Bond was pleasantly surprised at her inventiveness and evaluation. “Excellent back story. What appearance would you suggest?”

She tilted her head. “We’re going to be lingering around a business conference, so you’re quite, well, businessy and corporate, and I’m, well, a student, all into sustainable development and fair trade and such. It wouldn’t be surprising that we’d have maybe breakfast together, and then go our separate ways during the day. Nobody would expect me to be hanging around you all the time, but then meeting up at the beginning or end of each day would be quite in line with that cover. On the other hand, nobody would blink an eyelid if you were following me around or such.”  She finished, looking like she was holding her breath.

“Good. I understand that Q branch is seeing you at 1400?” he asked, and added at her affirmative nod, “I’ll see you there. I am going home first to pack my ‘dad clothes’.” Not that he had any, Bond thought, but if anyone could inform him on what ‘dads’ or ‘granddads’ wore, it would be Q. Besides, the fall-out from Q’s indignation would be worth it.

He smiled at her, and she hesitantly returned it.

* * * * *

Since Lucy’s mission was a standard information-gathering and bug-planting one, the only enhancement to her being equipped with a bog-standard Glock and Bond with his customised Walther, was that Bond was able to listen in on her line to Q-branch, in addition to his own line.

The flight was uneventful, and Bond relaxed with a drink, watching Beauchamp digest the rest of their data under the guise of scorning the entertainment options in favour of her tablet.

Beauchamp’s instincts had been right. She was not the only university-aged offspring sullenly lingering at the fringes of the luxury hotel, complete with the uniform of jeans, badly-dyed t-shirt ostentatiously from an ‘organic’ brand, expensive shoes and bag, and poking at the latest smartphone. Nobody at reception batted an eyelid at “Mr and Miss Bond,” and if anything, the looks directed towards Bond by the middle-aged concierge were faintly sympathetic.

“Lucy,” he addressed her, trying to get ‘his daughter’s’ attention, who didn’t even bother looking up. “Lucy!” Sharper, with more authority, which had the desired effect and she looked up, bored.

“Yes, dad.” Elongating the vowel into a lazy diphthong.

“Come along, you can check your Facebook messages later, or whatever else it is you are addicted to.”

She rolled her eyes, but followed him. Dragging her feet, the picture of the disgruntled adolescent.

Once they reached their lodging – Beauchamp occupied an additional room that opened onto Bond’s suite – they kept up the conversation as they swept the rooms for bugs. Bond never interfering, but checking her work. Lucy portrayed the messy, petulant undergraduate perfectly, and Bond excelled in his role as the bewildered, proud and exasperated father.

“All clear,” Lucy’s voice came through the feed to Q-branch, back to her normal tones.

“She’s right,” Bond’s much deeper voice agreed, making a note to tally up her thorough sweep on the score sheet.

“Onwards down to dinner then?” Lucy asked Bond. “The delegation’s plane touched down about fifteen minutes ago, so they should be arriving at the hotel in about an hour. If we go down to the Club for dinner, we should see them being checked in, since they’re bound to be upgraded to the Club floors, even if they haven’t actually paid for them. You could give me a long lecture about staying safe, not being scammed, and what to see around the city if anyone happens to be eavesdropping.” She dared a joke, “and I’ll grunt, ignore you, while being glued to my tablet so Q-branch can send everything straight to me.”

Q’s voice suddenly piped up on the line. “Your cocktail drinks and canapés are included in the room rate,” Q pointed out, “I’m glad, Miss Beauchamp, that you’re at least marginally more conscious of budget than Bond is.”

Bond chuckled low. “Since both of you have so masterfully organised our next moves, I shall follow your lead.”

* * * * *

Bond was waiting for her at the bar, giving a pained look at the dress that Lucy had picked – there wasn’t anything wrong with it, objectively, it was a conservatively cut, long sleeved, knee length silk dress with billowing sleeves – but it was slightly the wrong colour for her and a smidgen off fitting perfectly. She was also wearing flat shoes that didn’t quite complement the outfit.

She laughed at his expression. “I’ll have you know that this label supports retraining former sex workers in India, is run by the great-great granddaughter of the last Viceroy of India, and, most importantly, the Duchess of Cambridge wears their frocks. And really, what twenty-year-old is going to think to take their clothes to be altered if the hem and sleeves are the right length?”

“I assume it is too much to hope that they might.” Bond was sipping a dry martini, having ordered a white wine for her. She drank decorously, but kept her eyes on the neat reception counter, waiting for their targets. When the group of dark-suited men arrived, nothing except the slight tightening of her fingers on the stem of her wine glass gave away any interest on her part whatsoever.

Bond made a few more mental notes about her promising competence.

* * * * *

If the mission had played out the way everyone expected, and if it had only been the case of a little siphoning of state funds - with a bit of ministerial corruption thrown in on the side, plus a few bankers with their eyes on their bonuses rather than their integrity - then Bond had no doubt Beauchamp would have done very well.

As it turned out, while there was certainly a great deal of Chinese government funds being irregularly removed from the country, it was not simply to buy expensive real estate in Mayfair. Those funds were also being augmented by arrangements to sell equally expensive nuclear and electronic software technology to Syrian and Iranian middlemen.

The additional complications led to Lucy’s very quick introduction to the use of her Glock, the first time she was shot at in earnest and gained her first flesh wound, a one-armed pursuit by motorcycle through the back lanes of Mongkok with Lucy riding pillion while working the gas on the right handlebar, a spectacular but planned crash that resulted in a gash above Bond’s eye, and finally a shoot-out deftly handled by Bond. The mission ended successfully – as expected, at least by Q – despite having gone dreadfully off its projected trajectory.

Q was quick to inform James that their shenanigans had resulted in some very pointed questioning from M, who had been on his way to Downing Street for a meeting.

Bond hadn’t had so much fun since Algeria.

* * * * *

Lucy was curled up on the flat bed on the plane, a bundle of misery so small she might have fitted comfortably into an economy seat.

Bond had been talking to Q, idly relating the events to him in a way that made them sound a lot more entertaining than they had been. He had become addicted to making Q laugh, seeking the sound of mirth in his ear.

It took him a while to notice the junior agent’s misery, and in his new-found ‘baby-sitter’ role, he decided to intervene.

“What’s wrong?” He sat down beside her. “You did excellently out there.”

She turned to face him, and took a quick look around the darkened, half-empty cabin to check that it was devoid of crew, and the other passengers were either asleep or engrossed in the in-flight entertainment. She visibly slumped. “It was a complete mess. I just treated it like another exercise, didn’t I, and ran it as if the mission briefing I was given was the only thing there was to see. It didn’t even occur to me there might be more complications to it than we were given.”

“While I wholeheartedly applaud your ability to reflect on your actions, I very much disagree with your overly critical approach to your own performance. This was your first real mission, Beauchamp. You did extremely well all things considered. Your background isn’t military,” and she would have had to join up as a kid, Bond thought wryly, “and you haven’t had sufficient combat training.” He patted her shoulder lightly. “No one expected this mission to be anything but an easy and straightforward retrieval. I’ve had twenty years’ experience in the field, of course it is second nature to me to react to changed circumstances. I’ll be recommending you highly to the director, with the strong suggestion you should be sent to combat training. In a year or two you will be a star agent, trust me.”

“Really?” Her look was doubtful.

“Really.”

He patted her shoulder again, mindful of the bandage. “How’s your arm?”

“…’s OK now,” she answered.

“You’ll get used to flesh wounds.” He smiled at her. “Now stop feeling sorry for yourself, Beauchamp, and trust that ‘your dad’ knows what he’s talking about.”

He winked at her, and she grinned in return.

* * * * *

The debrief clearly didn’t go as Bond had expected, and within ten minutes of his meeting with M, his raised voice could be heard through the partially open door.

“You are making a mistake!”

“Don’t you dare question my decisions, Bond.”

“I do and I will. You are a misogynist dinosaur, Sir!” The door flew open, and Bond stormed through, ignoring the outraged demand to return immediately. He was out of the office in a flash.

Moneypenny could only stare after him, gaping open-mouthed, as M followed. “What was that?” she asked.

“Bond is being insubordinate,” M snarled.

“When isn’t he?” she replied cheerfully, then stood up from her desk. Mallory’s anger had never phased her in the slightest. “However, I do have to say, Sir, that if James Bond of all people calls you a misogynist, something is really wrong.”

“Et tu, Brute?”

Eve smiled her most calming smile. “Why don’t you tell me the reason he had for calling you a misogynist dinosaur, Sir?”

“Beauchamp, she didn’t perform well in a fire fight.”

“Was she prepared for a potential shoot-out, Sir?”

He glared at her, “did you listen in?”

“Of course not, I didn’t hear anything before ‘you are making a mistake’.”

“In that case I have to assume you and Bond are twins.”

“Hardly,” she chuckled, “but perhaps we have both a point?”

He continued his patented director-glare, until he finally turned back to his office, muttering “Brutus, definitely,” under his breath. He so disliked it when Bond was right.

* * * * *

Several weeks and evaluation missions later, Moneypenny was grinning like a hyena when Bond arrived at M’s office to sit in on the briefing of his latest ‘baby.’

“You’ll just _love_ this one,” Eve smirked. “The Hon. Richard Charles Fotherington-Grey. _Dicky_ to his friends. He’s _just_ like you. Or, rather, _he_ thinks he is.”

“Oh good,” Bond frowned, “that sounds like a whole lot of fun. Do I need to ask Q for a gadget that keeps me from punching Dicky on the snooty nose before he even opens his mouth?”

“Ask him for a matched set, I think we’ll all need them,” Moneypenny replied, pressing the button that announced Bond’s arrival. “Actually, no, he’s been in there five minutes with M, so M’s probably already beaten you to it.”

“Thanks for that, you evil witch.”

She laughed at that and childishly stuck out her tongue at him.

Three minutes in, the arrogant young agent’s company was enough to seriously try Bond’s patience. He fled to Q-branch as soon as he was released, figuring that _Dicky_ would drag out his own time with M to the maximum.

When he found Q in the bunker, he had a look on his face like a man being sent to his execution.

“Just kill me now and get it over and done with,” Bond groaned, throwing himself on the bench and displacing a yowling Mr Turing.

“What’s got your knickers in a twist this time?” Q was looking up and over the rim of his glasses.

“I have to babysit an arrogant little shit who thinks the sun shines out of his pert young arse.” For James to use such language, it really did have to be an extreme situation.

“Where do you have to take him?”

“Monaco.” Bond made a face. “Though on the bright side, he’ll fit right in with all those entitled little idiots who have ruined the place.”

“You do realise that you sound just like one of those entitled idiots?” Q tutted.

“I’m one of the _original_ idiots, I have the right to be entitled.”

Q laughed. “Do you want me to sit in while one of my minions outfits him?”

“You better, because you really should see the twit. You’re not going to believe me otherwise. Besides, I might need you to stop me doing him some serious harm during the mission.”

“What are you going there for, anyway?” Q asked curiously. “Monaco’s rather dropped off the list lately.”

“His task is to intercept a message a young mark is thought to be taking to her people-trafficking millionaire father. It is assumed that the daughter is unaware of her father’s operation, and of her role in it.”

Q tilted his head. “That’s all?”

“That’s all. I told you I am a babysitter. This isn’t so much a mission as a test to check research skills and ingratiation abilities.”

“So all he’ll need is a radio and a packet of condoms?” Q asked, “and all you’ll need is a radio and a book?”

“That depends on the mark, doesn’t it? If she’s likely to fall for him.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Then it depends on any other angle that can be found. I haven’t researched her yet, so I wouldn’t know.” James looked at Q, using one of his most charming smiles, the one he knew Q could never fully resist, no matter how hard he tried. “Surely, you’ll also give me a gun? And a book, Quartermaster? Really? I’d expect a Kindle at least, easier to hold one-handed and to transport.”

Q grizzled, but opened a drawer to reveal both items, the specially modified tablet he used on missions, and the customised palm-printed gun that Q had modified for Bond’s left-handed shooting. Plus the now customary adapted radio that enabled him to listen in on the junior agent’s line as well as have his own one (for commentary, James had stated, while in reality they used it to banter and simply to stay connected).

“The tablet’s got enough material there to keep you occupied,” Q added.

“I hope you are not trying to make me read Lord of the Rings again.”

Q wrinkled his nose. “Obviously, classics are wasted on you. I’ve got your usual trashy detective novels on it. And the Silmarillion.”

“Don’t call Inspector Morse or Inspector Rebus trashy,” James mock-growled as he put the gun into the bespoke shoulder-brace holder. “Isn’t the Silmarillion even worse than the Rings one?”

Q rolled his eyes. “It’s shorter. Who knows, it might be able to cope with your attention span.” Whatever he was going to say next was cut off by the snarl of Mr Turning, who was standing at the door to Q-branch, hackles raised.

They both turned and looked at the young man standing in the doorway.

“Hello, cat,” the new arrival looked down disdainfully at the creature, as though he wanted to kick it but wasn’t sure if the cat was going to be explosive. “I’m Agent 32, here to be outfitted.” He called into the room, as though taking for granted someone would care.

“Well, isn’t that nice,” James muttered quietly, only for Q to hear. Louder he said, “he’s all yours, Quartermaster,” then stepped away to lounge on the ‘visitor’ chair.

Two of Q’s minions exchanged glances, until one sighed and approached the young agent, while the winner took on the preferable task of carrying away the unhappy, spitting Mr Turing.

Bond watched the exchange with entirely too much glee, until Q shooed him out of the basement, not without giving a promise to actually be on time for whatever James decided to cook that night.

* * * * *

The short flight to Nice felt like a non-stop flight to Australia. Dicky had clearly read up on Bond’s missions that were available on the accessible server, and spent most of the trip trying to get Bond to talk about them.

He absolutely did not get the fact that Bond had no desire to talk about past missions. When even his monosyllabic replies didn’t get the message across, Bond was forced to tell him in no uncertain terms that he did not wish to talk about them in any more detail than was available on the server.

That finally shut the young man up, but the little peace he finally got wasn’t enough to make up for his annoyance. He missed Q in his ear, having ordered him to catch up on some much needed sleep, now selfishly regretting that request.

After a glance over at Dicky who was sulking and watching a ludicrous spy TV drama on the plane, Bond got out his tablet to read the intel on the mark that Q branch had sent while they had been boarding; intel that Dicky had not yet read. At one point, Bond could not hold back a chortle, but a glance at Dicky showed the young man had not noticed.

He was glad when the plane landed, the French Riviera hadn’t really changed since the first time Bond had been there on a mission. Perfect sunshine, luxurious hotels, magnificent beaches, and beautiful people everywhere.

He stopped for a second to put his shades on, and then watched as Dicky rushed past him towards the baggage claim, pushing past the people in front, and gathering nasty looks along the way.

 _Inconspicuousness_ , Bond thought, _2_. _Politeness_ , _0_.

* * * * *

Once they’d checked into their rooms in the Hotel de Paris, Bond freshened up, then finally got Q back into his ear. He sauntered down to the bar, having received notice from Dicky that the mark was to be found there. He sipped his perfectly mixed martini and relaxed, ready to observe.

 _Grooming_ , Bond mused, _10\. Thought, 3._

Though the Savile Row tuxedo was perfectly tailored and fit as well as Bond’s, it was all wrong for the young agent. If Dicky had wanted to spend money on expensive clothes, an overpriced designer off-the-rack garment would have been far more fitting for his age.

The mark was sitting in the lobby lounge, with a glass of champagne and a plate of pink macaroons. She was young (naturally), bottle blonde but seemingly done in an expensive salon (of course), with a magnificent cleavage on display (what else) and a dress that clung to her in all the right places, leaving almost nothing to the imagination (as expected).

Dicky moved in straight away, turning on the charm. Too absorbed in himself and his own cleverness to see her glance around the room, and subtly shift away.

 _Perception_ , _2_ , Bond decided.

Bond watched with increasing amusement as Dicky dug himself further and further into a hole, while the mark made even more obvious attempts to rid herself of him. Finally, she stood up mid-Dicky’s-tale-of-how-wonderful-he was and said, “excuse me, I need to go to the bathroom,” before proceeding towards the bar - in the opposite direction of the bathroom.

She came to a stop right beside Bond, looking a little flustered.

“Are you alright, Miss?” He asked. If Dicky had been less of a self-absorbed twat, he could have been up at the mark’s room already and annoying Q while ransacking it. Sadly, Dicky was instead sitting on the sofa that the mark had just left, glaring daggers at Bond.

_Initiative, 1._

“Just needed a little air,” her voice was high and breathy, sounding like she was on the edge of a giggle.

“Would you permit me to buy you a drink?” he smiled his most charming smile, the one Q claimed was deadly.

The giggle escaped. “Oh! Well...” she batted eyelids. “Champagne. My name’s Adelphe, by the way.”

“What a beautiful name, fitting for a beautiful young lady.” Bond dutifully ignored Q’s snort in his ear, as he ordered her champagne. “My name’s Robert, Robert Sterling.” The chortle was back.

“Lovely to meet you, Robert. What brings you to Monaco?”

“The sea at this time of year at the Cote d’Azur is perfect for sailing, and I hadn’t visited Monaco for a while. The single life does get a little wearing after a while.” He smiled, while listening to Q chuckling something about ‘kicking James’ _single_ butt out of their flat’.

“Oh!” Her eyes lit up. “Yes, it is lovely in Monaco. Are you going to be here long?”

“Perhaps a few days.” He smiled, lifting his martini glass to tap it against her champagne flute. “I tend to follow the horizon, where the sea wishes to take me.”

The sound of Q’s pained groan told Bond that the Quartermaster was watching via the CCTV in the bar.

She fluttered her eyelashes. “How lovely. It must be beautiful out there.”

“Not as beautiful as you.” Bond dipped his head, to let his remarkable eyes look at her from below, while Q muttered in his ear, ‘good grief, don’t lay it on that thick, she can’t be that much of a bimbo.’

A giggle proved Q wrong. “You’re such a charmer,” she smiled at him, “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

Bond heard a repeated thump in his ear and wondered if Q was bashing his head against a desk by now.

“Oh no, lass, I don’t,” the sigh of regret was heartfelt, and slightly overdone, “but I’m far too old and scarred for a pretty thing like you.”

“Oh!” Eyes wide, she came even closer. “No, no you’re not.”

“You should not waste your time with damaged goods such as me.” He smiled mildly at her. Only Q knew him well enough to detect a hint of boredom in his voice. “I could be your father.”

She ignored the last statement. “Oh dear, how did you hurt yourself?”

Bond gave a world-weary sigh, delving into the cover story they’d concocted for his very obvious physical damage and extreme scarring. “It was quite silly, really. I fell out of my boat when I was avoiding a pod of dolphins. Got caught under the propeller.” He stopped, while Q snorted at the look of sympathy on the mark’s face. “Still, it could have been worse, and it’s just an injured arm. No real harm except I had to give up the smaller motorboat. Carlos and the crew do a marvellous job with the yacht, I know, but it’s not the same as being out on my own.”

Q was laughing so hard in his ear, he was getting hiccups.

“Oh, I know,” she said sympathetically. “Still, the most important thing is that you’re all right.”

“That I am indeed.” He smiled indulgently, Q’s glee in his ear.

“Would you…” she whispered, leaning close so her perky breasts more than brushed his chest, “…would you like to come to my room? I find you irresistible.”

If Q’s amused snort in his ear was anything to go by, ‘irresistible’ was high on his list of things-that-James-does-that-make-me-roll-my-eyes-at-him.

“Are you sure?” Bond rumbled, “you’re such a lovely young girl.”

“Please?” She batted her eyelashes again (extensions, Bond noted), and stood up, holding out her hand.

He took her hand (expensively manicured with nails that were too long not to be slightly vulgar) and led her away from the bar. Ignoring the angry looks Dicky was staring into their retreating backs.

They soon arrived at her suite, which was as luxurious as expected, except for the bright yellow and blue toile patterned furnishings that made Bond’s eyes ache and his style sense recoil.

“Why don’t you have a glass of champagne while I quickly freshen up in the bathroom?” He asked with every ounce of charm he could muster.

She giggled delightedly, and scooted across to the small table that had been set up. “Please don’t be long, I can’t wait to get you out of your clothes. You are overdressed.” She giggled sweetly once more.

“Of course, darling.” Bond was all gentleman, but the moment he pulled the bathroom door close behind him he groaned quietly, for only Q to hear.

“Were they always such airheads?” He murmured, mindful of the mark next door.

“No, but the others tended to be armed,” Q quipped. There was the sound of crunching.

“Are you eating _popcorn_?” Bond asked. “Am I providing _entertainment_ for you? I’m hard at work here!”

“Oh, very hard, shagging a twenty-something with the proportions of a pin-up,” Q’s voice came back, entirely without sympathy. “It’s butter flavoured,” he added.

“Good, because you really do need fattening up. Remind me to put a choice of desserts for you onto the next Waitrose grocery order.”

Q’s response was a laugh. “Get back out there, before she thinks you’re in here popping a few blue pills.”

“I’ve not quite reached the pills stage yet,” Bond groused, opening the taps to pretend he was actually using the bathroom to freshen up.

Her voice was heard from the room, impatiently calling, and he knew his time was up.

“Once more for Queen and Country,” Bond sighed.

“Shouldn’t that be ‘unto the breach, my friends, once more’,” Q needled.

“Thank you, my dear Q, you are ever so sympathetic.”

“Always, James, always.”

* * * * *

She was asleep on the bed, with her cheeks still flushed, her full lips in a pouting smile, and her long blond hair spilled out all over the pillow. Her body lay gloriously naked in the twisted sheets, young and perfect. When Bond looked at her, he felt nothing, no stirring nor wish to repeat the performance.

She had drunk the doctored glass of champagne he had given her, and would be safely asleep while he searched her luggage. Rummaging through one monogrammed Louis Vuitton suitcase and bag after the other, he eventually found the USB stick and retrieved it after checking its contents via his modified smart phone. Q confirmed the data, and Bond swiftly got dressed.

Standing over her for a moment, he pulled up the comforter on impulse and covered her up before he left.

* * * * *

Dicky was lurking in the corridor outside, visibly seething.

“You couldn’t resist, could you?” he spat at Bond, who ignored him and headed towards the lift to their own floor.

 _Common sense_ , Bond thought, _\- 25_

“Contrary to your own behaviour on this mission, I do what needs to be done for a successful outcome.”

The lift doors opened, and Bond strode inside. Uncaring if Dicky followed or not.

The younger agent, however, followed like a disgruntled puppy, and Bond was relieved there were no witnesses (unless one counted Q laughing over the feed). As they reached his room, Dicky followed him inside.

Bond to face him turned the moment the door was closed.

“If you’d bothered to so much as read the information _someone else_ researched for you,” he coldly looked at Dicky, “you’d have realised that she has never had a lover less than twelve years older than her, starting from the Argentinian polo player when she was seventeen. Her male associates who are her age, are all gay, introverted, and intellectual, which would have been the angle you should have taken. She veers away from all young, assertive males who approach her either romantically or sexually – like she did with you. Not to mention if you’d had half a thought beyond your own importance, you’d have been up here searching her room for the USB the minute she walked away, and I would have taken her to dinner and the casino and you would have had far more time, and less risk of being discovered, than I had while doing the search.”

Dicky gaped at Bond, jaw open.

“Now get out,” Bond snapped. “We’re on the 0600 flight tomorrow morning back to London.”

The junior agent spun around and fled, tail between his legs.

* * * * *

The debrief meeting with M turned out to be refreshingly straightforward. Bond’s evaluation of Richard Charles Fotherington-Grey was condemning in all points. Much to Moneypenny’s glee.

Official evaluation and debriefing done, Bond headed to the basement to drag Q for lunch at the canteen (both of them trading quips about the contents of the lasagne and burgers - beef or horse), which he tried to do as often as he could. Afterwards, he was sauntering back to his own office, the very existence of which Bond still had difficulty getting his head around.

He was turning the corner when a very irate Dicky flew towards him. Just out of his meeting with M, he threw a punch at Bond, entirely out of the blue.

The fist impacted with an ugly crunch, but before Dicky could revel in having got a punch into the former double-O, Bond was attacking him.

He’d retrained in close combat, relentlessly practising the adapted techniques, until his instructors had not found anything they could improve him on. His reflexes were almost as fast as they had been, and clearly fast enough for an arrogant little shit who thought that attacking an older one-armed agent was a good idea.

Bond had Dicky on the floor within seconds. Kneeling on the younger man’s back, he held him in a painful grip. “Listen to me,” he hissed, having gathered an audience by now, “there is one piece of advice I forgot to give you.”

He pulled a little harder against Dicky’s throat, who whimpered in panic and pain.

“That advice is to _never_ underestimate anyone. Do you understand?”

Dicky grunted.

“I didn’t hear you,” Bond insisted, only dimly aware of the corridor becoming crowded with curious witnesses.

“Yes, Sir!” Dicky gasped out.

It was only then that Bond let go of him, and stood up to brush down his suit.

Dicky scrambled up and pushed his way through the onloookers, including M, who had stuck his head out of his office to see what all the fuss was about.

Bond just gave a one-shouldered shrug, ignored everyone’s questions, and simply continued on his way. If his jaw ached from that damned punch, he wasn’t going to prod at it before he’d reached the safety of his office.

* * * * *

The following day, a new ‘training’ video had appeared on MI6’s server under the section “Rules and Regulations for Junior Agents.” It showed Bond effortlessly taking down Dicky, and boasted the header of “Never underestimate your opponent.”

According to Q’s internal stats, it became a hit amongst SIS within hours.

Nothing more was said, at least officially. Dicky found himself manning the intelligence desk at the British Embassy in Bishkek, where he remained until he resigned for a job in the City.

* * * * *

It took Q a remarkably long time to realise that something felt odd. Several days, in fact. For someone with such a genius brain to not catch onto the slight niggle, would have been embarrassing in any other situation. When it came to James, though, Q was used to being caught off guard.

Once he had figured out what was different, he vowed to bring it up. Preferably over dinner. It was his turn to get something onto the table, and thus it would be Marks & Spencer’s tried and trusted meal for two. Except for the wine that came with the offer, since James never deigned to drink that ‘muck’ as he called it. The arrogant git.

That thought kept Q entertained while he heated up the portions, waiting for dinner to be ready.

Halfway through the first glass of fabulous Burgundy (James imported the wine directly from small, independent French vineyards), and partly through the main meal, Q put his fork down. He focused on James, who was using the clever contraption Q had designed, to cut the stuffed chicken breast.

“So,” Q started.

James looked up, puzzled. “So, what?”

“That woman…”

“What about her? She was a mark, she was part of my job. Dicky was an idiot.”

“Yes, yes, I know that, but that woman, she was the first one as far as I know, in goodness how long?”

“Ah,” James let out a soft breath and placed hand, fork, and chicken back down. “Yes, she was.”

“So,” Q started again, suddenly worried he looked desperate for reassurance. Too late for second thoughts, he had to finish what he’d started. “That means you’ve been, well, you’ve been monogamous.”

“It would seem so, yes.” James smiled mildly, then took a sip of his wine.

“Why?” Q blurted out.

“You do realise that we’ve got it entirely the wrong way round, don’t you?”

“Huh?” It wasn’t his day for intelligent conversation, Q thought with dismay.

“Most people would go: ‘you bastard, you had sex with that dim young thing!’” Q was laughing at James’ impression. “And not: ‘you bastard, you haven’t had sex with lots of others before you bedded that dim young thing.’”

Q was positively roaring with laughter by then, while James watched him, pale eyes sparkling with mirth.

Eventually, Q calmed down. “I get it, but then we’re not really ‘other people’, are we?”

“No,” James smiled, “and to satisfy your curiosity, the answer is quite simple. I had sex with hundreds of people. I have no chance to ever know the number. What I have now is what’s exciting and different for me. The same person, and figuring out what makes them tick, while finding out new things about them now and then? Absolutely fascinating. I really can’t be bothered to shag others if I don’t have to. Besides, I trust you completely. With you I’ve learned to let go.”

Q didn’t know where to put himself and that suddenly expanding heart of his. He didn’t know why, or how, or what the hell it was in James’ little speech that was getting to the very core of him, making him grin like an idiot while feeling so smitten and embarrassingly emotional, he couldn’t trust his voice. So he said nothing.

“You do know that I’m not demanding the same from you, don’t you?” James eventually asked carefully.

“Oh, I know that.” Still grinning, but at least having his wayward emotions back under control, Q leaned across. “But to be honest, I just can’t be arsed with shagging anyone else. I’ll just stick with you, Commander Bond.”

If the bright and extremely rare grin Q got in lieu of a reply meant anything, then he knew he’d said the right thing.


	20. Fortification

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vita Mortis is now complete.  
> A long journey of two forces that collided, burnt, and finally came together in an unexpected ellipsis.

James looked across at Q, asleep on the other side of the bed. A flurry of movement, and Mr Turing appeared on Q’s bedside table, stepping daintily around the electronic equipment and Q’s glasses. He paused, silently hissed at James, before curling up at Q’s side, furry back pointedly towards James.

James returned the hiss with a snarl, but lay back down. He was far too comfortable to want to remove the cat, annoying as it was.

To say they’d come to a truce would have been an exaggeration, but since he wasn’t allowed to kill the cat, while the cat was allowed to do almost anything he liked (throwing up hairballs into James’ coffee out of spite for using up most of Q’s time and focus was apparently off-limits, thankfully) they’d come to an arrangement of mutual dislike. Of course, Q found that absolutely hilarious.

Perhaps, James mused while trying to doze off once more, he was alright with anything that made Q laugh. Even a superbly annoying feline.

* * * * *

A couple of hours later, Q stumbled bleary-eyed into the living room, where James was sitting at the dining table. Dressed in an open-necked white shirt and black slacks, he had his reading glasses perched on his nose, his right arm in his lap without the sling. The Guardian was spread out in front of him, a cup of coffee at his left hand, and a half-empty cafetière beside it, while a crumb-covered plate and used butter knife had been pushed to the side. The tea pot was waiting beside the kettle on the marbled counter, the tea jar beside it. A variety of covered baskets, jars and dishes was arranged on the table, a second set of plate, cup, knife, and napkin neatly placed in front of the empty chair opposite Bond. The chair that was Q’s. Bloody hell, he had _his_ chair, and James had one, too.

The ridiculously domestic scene struck Q as so utterly bizarre, he stopped in the doorway and kept staring in silence.

“Let me know when you’ve woken up.” The amused voice startled Q. James hadn’t even looked up, left hand turning the newspaper page, as he continued reading.

“I don’t get it.” Q shook his head, unruly curls flying.

“Hm?” James hummed softly, still engrossed in an article.

“I don’t get _this_.” Q made a vague gesture, including the whole kitchen.

“It’s called breakfast.” James finally looked up, amusement written on his face.

“Yes, but _this_. You. Me. Suburbia.”

“I would hardly call South Kensington suburbia.” Unflappable as ever, James returned his attention to the newspaper.

“Doesn’t it strike you as completely crazy?”

“What, Kensington?”

Q huffed. James could be the most obnoxious git he had ever met. That was probably part of the reason why he continued to find him so fascinating. Obnoxious and predictable in his unpredictability.

“Us. This. The sheer domesticity of it all.”

James finally looked up. Turning his focus onto Q and his freak-out, he slipped the glasses off his face, placed them onto the newspaper, then fixed Q with his gaze. His blue eyes never did look quite as mesmerising as in the morning sunshine right now.

“You are thirty-four years old, in a high-end-high-stakes job, and you hardly ever manage to take a weekend off. I am forty-six years old and semi-retired, and when I’m not playing pensioner, I’m babysitting junior agents across the world.”

Q snorted at the understatement of the century, but James continued.

“What exactly do you think is strange about people like us having a nice breakfast in a nice home on a nice day?”

How the man could say a word like ‘nice’ and not make it sound utterly obscene was beyond Q.

“Because...because it’s _us_! We are not nice men.”

The reply startled a shark-like grin out of James. “That’s why after we have had our nice breakfast in our nice home on this nice day I am going to kick your fat cat’s arse for throwing up on my shoes.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Try me.” Pokerface perfectly in place, James’ levelled gaze never wavered.

“You’re impossible.” Q groused, but stepped closer. Of course James wouldn’t kick Mr Turing, even though the cat did throw up or shed fur onto anything that was James’ out of pure spite and disdain (at least that’s what Mr Turing’s victim claimed) and of course James would take the piss out of Q’s momentary freak-out. Maybe life really was that good, and it was theirs.

Q mock-slapped the back of James’ head as he walked past. “Impossible, obnoxious, still as much a pain in the arse as ever, and I have no idea why I put up with you, you annoying git.”

James caught Q’s hand in his left and pulled him close.

“I know, I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, we hope you enjoyed this story of James Bond and his Quartermaster.


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